


Winter Bird

by qveenofcvps



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, It's mostly angst - Freeform, and it's not even sandor, maybe there will be sex, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qveenofcvps/pseuds/qveenofcvps
Summary: As the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa dreams her wolf-dreams.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no idea what this is. I've had writer's block for 6+ years, and suddenly it all came out of me like vomit. I just blended elements of the show and the books. It's been a while since I read ASOIAF and I was too lazy to really do research or actually go into the books and look. So. Also, I hate Littlefinger, so this isn't a good place for you if he's your favorite character. Most of this doesn't make sense because I'm terrible at linear plots. This was meant to be a one-shot, dammit. I think I forgot how to write properly.
> 
> More than like going to rewrite the very beginning of this, but it's 4am. Just indulge me. This is first thing I've put out for people to read in literally years, so if you could not be mean, that would be great.
> 
> I do not own the characters, etc, etc, etc.

Sansa had never imagined a time in her life where she looked forward to the cold. The Vale could be frigid, surely, and King's Landing was hit with chilly airs from the ocean frequently; the snow would never highlight the trees and mountains like they did at Winterfell, and no where else in the world could silence exist like this. She often came out before the sun rose, to observe her home in the hours before it would be filled with people and noise. Sansa enjoyed the sound her boots made as she walked, crunching lightly, and felt much like a ghost at these times.

Winterfell at last. After years of turning her head North while others schemed and fought, she was finally back where she belonged. The smile that came to her face was sad, knowing that the Sansa that had left this place so many years ago walked through the gates feeling entirely different. How perturbing, to change so much, and yet be the same.

She caught sight of the sun, shimmering slightly on the horizon, through the wolf's wood. Even this far away, she felt she could see each individual leaf, and feel the briskness of the early breeze shuddering through the branches. She was a bit jealous of Arya and her brothers, then, for having ventured out when they were children. Spending so much time in the godswood at the Red Keep had given her a fondness for the protection of the forest.

Sansa was about to turn away, to make her way back to her rooms before anyone else woke up, but she heard wolves. Far away, but her heart began to thump in her chest and her hands went to grip her skirts. It was fancy, since she knew she was dead, but she imagined Lady in the woods, darting between trees, blood still shining on her muzzle from a fresh kill. Lady would never hurt anyone, not unless they would try to harm Sansa, but the image still gave her equal amounts of comfort and grief. She sometimes still would put her hand down at her side, expecting to feel the headiness of the direwolf's fur on her fingers.

Sansa stood and listened to them for a few more seconds before hurrying away, preparing herself for the day ahead of her.

-

"You look pale, princess."

"No paler than usual?" Sansa replied, looking down at her hands. In truth, she hadn't been sleeping well, not since Jon had left to seek men to build his army. As long as Littlefinger remained, the Vale would as well, but that alliance depended solely on Sansa, and neither she nor Jon trusted Littlefinger enough to offer any true endorsement. She was worried, since she knew there were still Bolton supporters in the North, and with Jon just recently proclaimed King--

"You aren't unwell, are you? Would you like me to draw you a bath, or maybe brew you some hot tea?"

Sansa gave the girl a tired smile. Evette was a sweet girl, and was very eager to please the lady of Winterfell, which could be indulging, if not exhausting. She had had a different girl when she was Lady Bolton, but she left that entire staff go, with money and recommendations enough to get them a fresh start. She could not bear to see anything that reminded her of him. She wanted to stay true to her words. He _would_ disappear.

"No, my dear, I'm quite fine. You go ahead and break fast, I want to write a letter to my brother before I come down."

With Evette gone, she walked to the window and opened the shutters, leaning out slightly. It was faint, but she could still hear the howling. Or maybe it was just echoing in her head. Either way, she left the window open as she crossed the room to sit at her desk, to begin compiling a letter to Jon. There was never much to write, but it was more to remind him to write to her. They loved each other, but it was still hard to overcome that awkwardness that had existed between them as children.

_Your Grace,_  
_I am always so tempted to start these letters informally, but I cringe to hear my septa's voice in my head scolding me for addressing a king so. I look forward to the times when we can converse as brother and sister again, and I may call you by the name our father called you._  
_I heard wolves this morning, out beyond the gates, far into the woods. It sounded like dozens, although I know that is the trick behind their howling. I heard stories of a giant she-wolf, who eats man and sheep both and leads a pack almost too large to be believable. I wonder if she patrols our lands now, protecting the true rulers of the Northern kingdom._  
_Is it terrible of me to miss Ghost as much as you? You are so lucky, to still have your direwolf. Petyr Baelish has taken to intercepting my walks along the battlements after dinner, and has been pressing his suit more frequently. I refuse him every single time, but he seems undeterred--he has shown to me, though, he has no understanding of women, however much he boasts and however clever he may actually be. What baffles me, is that he truly believes I still have interest in being queen, after Joffery, after Cersei. Ramsey. No, no, I am content to be your sister and the princess of Winterfell. Perhaps I should walk with a escort now._  
_Do hurry home to Winterfell, the most beautiful of places. Your loving sister awaits you, and prays to the old gods every day for your safe return._  
_Sansa_

She sealed the letter with the sigil of her house--oh, it felt so good to see those colors everywhere--and started to make her way towards the rookery. Winterfell was awake now; the sounds of metal on metal, men shouting, women humming, and the sweet smell of harvest. Their glass gardens were just beginning to produce, since the Boltons had destroyed them and never bothered to rebuild them, which angered Sansa as well as confused her. Disgusting as they well, they were northern, and they were aware of the hard reality of winter. Did they expect the Lannisters to provide everything?

She made it to the rookery, and pinched her nose up as she entered. She could never get accostumed to the smell of the ravens, but Sam didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed quite cheerful when he turned to greet her. "Good morning, princess," he bowed a little. "You look very lovely."

"So do you, maester," she teased. Sansa was a little perplexed that Jon had become close with a person so unlike him, but he was such a charming boy, she understood their friendship quite well now. She was glad he had left him behind, if only to keep her company and give her counsel about the freefolk.

"The cold really brings out the pink in my cheeks," he replied. "Is that a letter for Jon?"

"For our king, yes," she answered sternly, but smiled all the while.

"I'm about to send him one myself. Why not send both on the same raven? A double reminder to communicate with his loved ones."

Sansa laughed at that, and had to agree. She watched the raven fly off until it disappeared into the white mist that was winter, and then made her way down to break her fast with Sam and the others that were left behind.

-

"How long has our king been away? I fear for his safety," came the voice of Wyman Manderly from below her at supper later that night. "Is he to suffer the same fate as his brother, to never sit the throne that we proclaimed him for?"

"Have more faith in Jon Snow, merman," Tormund Giantsbane growled. "He beat that little Bastard Bolton down into the dirt. I saw it, and I'm sure those lords felt it shaking their stone walls." The men laughed, but Sansa couldn't even bring herself to smile. Yes, Jon had beat Ramsey. Broken his nose, his jaw, every tooth in his narrow mouth, every vessel in his eyes. It was like looking at Joffery's body, only it was talking to her, mocking her.

Jon had beaten Ramsey, won against him, but Sansa was the one who killed him.

"Our king is only gathering loyal men to his cause," Sansa assured in a clear voice. "If anyone should attempt to do him harm, he has the best with him, and he is more than capable himself. I want him home, too, good men, more than you can imagine. We have been away as a family for so long. Even when he returns though, there shall be no time for rest. There is strife in all directions, with the two queens in the south and the evil storming down from the north. For now, we must prepare for winter, and pray to the gods to keep the King in the North safe." There were some murmurs of agreement, but Sansa caught Littlefinger's eyes as she began to turn her attention back to her food. He was trying to assess her again, she supposed, but she had learned from the beginning what he wanted to see, and it was the easiest way to trick him. So she simply smiled sweetly at him and ate her pie.

-

After months of absence, Jon Snow was back, with more men than Sansa ever dreamed of seeing. Bolton deserters, refugees from the South, and with a joyful heart Sansa counted almost all the Northern banners (minus one, obviously) flying in the company that followed behind her brother. She was overcome with hopefulness, and flung herself into Jon's arms as soon as he stepped down from his horse. He grunted with her body hit his, and he smelled horrible, but Sansa was never so glad to see him, even that time in the Castle Black courtyard. "My prayers have been answered," she kissed him on both cheeks, not caring about the grime that covered his skin. "My brother has returned intact and so have his companions. The gods have also blessed you with your rightful army."

"It wasn't easy," the King in the North admitted, scratching at his head. "Involved a lot more diplomacy than I'm used to..."

"You're obviously charming enough," she replied, looking over his shoulder again. "I've prepared the Great Hall as best as I can. We've cleared out the snow from most of the surrounding yards and set up tents for your men. With winter beginning, there's not a lot to spare, but we can make due."

"I know we can. I think we'll all just be glad not to have a day full of marching." Jon grinned, but his face was so tired it broke Sansa's heart. It made her think of Robb.

"Come inside. Warm your bones. I know you will want to hear from my own mouth what is going on in the South." They did just that, and after Jon had refreshed and changed into new leathers, they met at the Great Hall. Sansa was waiting for him, looking into the fires, thinking of a man who was afraid of them. "Drink?" Sansa asked, and Jon nodded, running a hand through his curls, They sat together, in their father's and Sansa's mother's chairs, quiet for a moment, as Sansa poured them both a glass of spiced wine. The siblings sipped at their cups for a moment before Sansa turned herself to face Jon fully. "Jon," she began, looking into the eyes of her brother, different from her own. "The Dragon Queen is in Westeros. She has been laying seige on King's Landing for weeks now, but Cersei will not yield. She is safe in Maegor's Keep while her people are starving, and Daenerys Targaryen is growing impatient."

"If this Daenerys has dragons, why not just bring down the Red Keep?" Jon asked.

"There are innocent people at court, Jon," Sansa whispered. "Children and women work in those kitchens and halls. I would imagine she does not want to harm them. If she wants to take Cersei's place as queen, she won't last long if her subjects hate her more than they hated a madwoman." She paused. "And Cersei will not surrender, ever. Daenerys will have to kill her, and she's running out of options."

"How can Cersei think there is way out for her?" Jon mumbled, taking a gulp of wine. "Surrounded on all sides. Dragons from the sea, Dorne and Highgarden from the South, and us above her. With Tywin dead and the Kingslayer missing, Casterly Rock has abandoned her."

"She's mad," Sansa replied simply. "That is all."

"What do you think we should do?" he asked her, looking up from his hands to her. She blinked at him, then turned to observe the flames again.

"I think...I think we need dragons on our side if we want to survive the winter, yes?"

-

With an army as large as this one, Sansa's morning walks became something else entirely. Most times she was still alone, but there was always some kind of business going on below her--anxious men pacing the fields, drunks stumbling into their tents or out of them to relieve themselves, and the sounds of training and orders being shouted had become commonplace. This was her army, the Stark's bannermen, and they would follow her commands as swiftly as they would Jon's. She gripped the stone with her palms as she leaned her weight into the wall, recalling how long it had been since Winterfell's yards were clear of soldiers and visiting lords and ladies. Catelyn Stark would have taken to patrolling with the men, not watching over them from a far. As much as she wanted to be, she was not strong like her mother--the years had turned her into a different woman than her mother ever was.

She was just brushing the snow off her cloak when there was a knock on her door. "Come in," she called out calmly, but she was not expecting to see Jon Snow stride into her quarters, looking as if he had been awake for several hours like her. "Jon?" she inquired when he did not announce his intent; he was by her open window, watching the activity below, mirroring her actions from shortly before. Sansa went to go stand beside him, trying to assess his emotions. He looked...pensive. His brow was furrowed and she could see the way his shoulders were tense under his cloak. "What irks you so?" Sansa probed again. Jon sighed, leaned a bit away from the draft that suddenly shifted both their clothing.

"You would be much better at this than I am. You know that, right? I think everyone else knows it, too."

She was startled by his words. "Jon, that's not--"

"Even if you don't think it, I do. I know you would be more patient, and more thoughtful with your decisions--"

"Maybe I would be, but you are the king," Sansa said firmly, gripping his arm. "You look more a Stark than I ever will, besides. No men are loyal to me the way they are to you. I know nothing of war or the battlefield, and we are at war. The Boltons are gone, but we are not safe. You can protect us, Jon. More people will make it through the winter if you are the one leading us."

He sighed again, closing his eyes. "And marriage. Already I've been pestered about it. I loved Robb, but I won't make the same mistakes that he did--I can't have a wife in the North while I might die who knows where." Jon opened his black eyes and centered them on his sister. "And I won't have children until I have a true name."

"Everyone knows you are a Stark," Sansa smiled.

"Littlefinger approached me as well, about marrying you. How you can even stand to be around that man is beyond me, but I made it quite clear that I don't have any interest in joining our two families."

"I know how to handle Petyr."

"I know. I think even a six-year-old girl could fight off Petyr Baelish."

Sansa laughed, feeling a bit lighter. Her brother kissed her on the cheek, and she was completely overwhelmed, for a moment, by the feeling of being with her family again, and in her family's home; her vision misted over before Jon pulled away from her. "We've had refugees coming in from the south all day, either seeking shelter or wanting to join our cause. I've already ordered men to work on more ways to keep the people safe from the cold but there's only so much we have. I think we're going to need help soon."

"If we supply our troops to the Dragon Queen..."

"Soon. I want to make sure we can survive the journey. We're no use to anyone travel-weary and sick."

"Pray to the gods for them to make a quick recovery, then, because winter is already here."

-

Sansa's dreams were feverish, and full of bright color. One second she was pounding through the forest, the undergrowth damp under her paws, and then she was North, even further than the Wall, watching a massive army inch its way across the icy fields. She was too far away to tell what banner they flew, but for some reason, the sight of them gave her heart a reason to skip. Sansa turned on her heel in the snow, and when she looked elsewhere she was back in the court at King's Landing, only her father sat on the throne with his head sitting on his lap, still dripping his blood down his trousers on onto the marble steps. She wanted to run, but someone grabbed the back of her dress and pulled, ripping it and exposing her. Before she could even protest, the scene had changed, and she was back at Winterfell, only in the camps below her tower. She was walking amongst them, but she passed through their bodies like mist. Sansa wasn't sure where she was going, but her feet seemed to--before she knew it she was in front of a tent, and there was a voice inside that tent, the reason she had been led her. She went to open the flap even though she couldn't physically touch it, but whoever was inside had their back turned to her. Jon was there--why?--and he had a hand on the pommel of his sword, though he didn't seem to be in danger. His mouth was moving but the words coming out blended together, and Sansa couldn't understand him, no matter how hard she concentrated.

Then the other man turned around, and looked straight at her.

She awoke abruptly, covered in sweat, her hair sticking to her neck and cheeks. She lay there for a moment longer, too afraid to move for some reason. Somehow, she knew it was not a normal dream--that some of the things that she had seen were physical, even if she was not. And the man's eyes...they were the color of wet stone.

Sansa let out a shaky breath, sitting up. Even if the dreams were strange, there was no use dwelling on it, and as the Lady of Winterfell, she couldn't afford to be paralyzed in her bed. She looked down at her hands clutching the furs, and forced herself to relax; suffering nightmares the first few weeks of sleeping in this room alone, she had become quite adept at settling her nerves before going about her day. She hated Ramsey for turning a room that had once been safe into a source of anxiety, but she shoved him down before he could surface through tears or anger. Besides, she didn't dream of him anymore, not really. If his face was there when she closed her eyes, it was usually in the jaws of his hounds.

_If the Hound were here, he would have killed Ramsey_.

She furrowed her brow, not having thought of Sandor Clegane as often as she used to. He was always lurking in the back of her mind, whispering his harsh advice to her, hovering at the corners of her bed. Pretending to be Alayne, someone who would have never been in King's Landing, let alone mingled with lords and knights, she didn't really allow herself recollections of him. Except the few yearning times she would wish he would nearby, because she knew he would protect her.

Sandor Clegane was dead, if the tales from the south were true. Sansa had a hard time believing what she heard, though, so only the gods truly knew whether or not the Hound lived. Old or new, no god had ever taken the time to answer Sansa before, but she offered up a quick prayer anyway, feeling a bit guilty that he had been so absent from her mind. She was certain that no one else prayed for the Hound.

There were birds outside; so used to the quiet of winter, Sansa was startled to hear them. Normally she could not discern their songs, not unless the sun shone bright in the day. _Little bird_ , he used to say. Sansa couldn't bear to listen to them.

-

Jon and Sansa were seated side by side, listening as men and women expressed concerns over the winter. Jon was certainly listening attentively, as their father would have, but Sansa was restless this afternoon, having had more peculiar dreams the night before. She offered counsel when spoken to, but otherwise looked out the window, following the steady downward drift of the snow with her eyes. It was not until she heard the sudden sound of swords being unsheathed, and she came to full attention, whipping her head around to take the scene in full. Jon was still sitting, seemingly unthreatened, but many men had moved from their posts and were facing one figure, who had presented themself to the Stark siblings.

"It's a Lannister dog!" spat one guard.

Their eyes met for the briefest second before Sansa looked down at the table, feeling her mouth go dry. _Sandor Clegane is dead_ , she thought, so dizzy she thought she might faint. _Why is he standing in front of me now?_

"Joffery Baratheon is in the ground," came his voice, deeper and harsher than she remembered. "And anyone left fighting for the Lannisters are dead men and bloody fools. I'm no one's dog, now."

"Lower your swords," Jon commanded. "We are in no danger from Clegane. He comes to us on peaceful terms."

"Aye," he agreed, glancing from Jon to Sansa. "It's been a couple of years since Starks sat in those chairs, I imagine. Coming here, seeing it, feels like justice." At those words, everyone backed down, and Sansa took in his face, so unchanged (except the beard), so familiar it seemed ludicrous for her to ever be afraid of it. She knew she was always more afraid of the words he would say rather than if he would hurt her. His armor was dented, his gloves ripped and his boots worn, but his eyes were bright and clear like a wolf. She watched him as he knelt down before them on one knee, noticing that he seemed to struggle with the action a bit, and sucked in a breath when he said, "I rode hard from the Quiet Isle when I heard tales of a Stark army rising up again, and a new King in the North. I knew from the very beginning that I was fighting for the wrong side--Joffery was a twat, but he had a cruel streak I'd only seen in real brutes, like my brother. You're no thin-lipped brat, and I think it's safe to say you don't get off on beating little girls. I'm not a knight, but I'm better with a sword than any perfumed lord with a 'ser' to his name. Let me fight for you in the wars to come."

When she looked at Jon, she was expecting to see surprise, confusion, contemplation, but he looked so complacent that she realized--her dream, him in the tent, it was real, and they had already discussed this in private before making it official. Why had Jon not told her? She hadn't told him about the Hound, though, to be fair, she hadn't told _anyone_ about the Hound. Everyone who didn't know him cursed his name, but she kept his secret.

"They were calling you the Mad Dog of Saltpans," Sansa said to him, her voice at such a low tone she was almost sure Sandor didn't hear her. His eyes, however, met hers the second he heard her speaking to him, and they both took stock of each other briefly before Sansa continued. "They said you were riding with a band of men, reeving and raiding. Raping. But they also said you were dead, and here you are. Am I to trust the other parts of these tales are false as well?"

"Aye, you can count on it," Sandor affirmed. "Some bastard stole my helm and let people call him Hound. He was welcome to the name, and he did me the favor of burying it, too."

Sansa glanced at Jon, who was already turned in her direction. "They may have named me King in the North, but I'm still not a Stark, not really. You are the lady of Winterfell. I know you might not feel safe with someone connected to the Lannisters being here..."

She wanted to laugh at this words, but such a thing would be strange to the men present. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, and stood with her palms flat on the long table. "This man was the only one in King's Landing that treated me with any semblance of kindness. When Cersei and Joffery delighted in tormenting me, he would do what he could to ease my pain. And he never, never laid a hand on me. I want the company gathered here to know this, though I know others will say what they will." Sansa lifted her chin, defiant to let him know she was no longer a scared girl. "You are welcome here, Sandor Clegane."

He was never really one for shows of formality, so he dipped his head to her instead of bowing. "Thank you," he rumbled.

-

Sansa didn't catch him alone until a few days after. She followed him down the stairs and across the yard, watched him enter the stables to tend to Stranger (the stableboy almost lost two fingers trying to feed the animal), and slipped in behind him. Sandor was scratching the warhorse between its eyes and murmuring endearments to it while the other hand fed him feed from a small bucket. It was odd to see him in such a quiet environment, since all her memories of him were at the Red Keep--even odder that he was here in her home, though.

He noticed her instantly, as she expected him to. "The little bird becomes more like a wolf each day," he rasped. "I nearly didn't hear you behind me the whole way."

She blushed a little, more from hearing him call her 'little bird' again than him catching her stalking him. "It's hard to move quietly in snow," she replied, shaking the stuff from the hem of her skirt and from her braid.

"There's a bloody lot of it, to be sure," he growled, finishing his task and turning away from Stranger to set down the feed. The horse seemed content with Sandor near, but kept its eyes on Sansa. She'd never been this close to his horse before, so she kept her distance. "Not used to this cold. Stranger isn't either, poor bastard. I'd take him out to warm his legs but best we could do would be a trot round your yard, and there might be causalities if that's attempted." She couldn't help but laugh at that, covering her mouth with her hand. He stared hard at her for a moment, and she fought the urge to hide herself. It was difficult to break those habits. _He's nothing like Ramsey, or Petyr, or Joffery, or Dontos_ , she thought, even as she thought back to the only time he kissed her, that night the Blackwater was on fire. She was going to lie down and let him do what he wanted, but there were tears on his cheeks as he ripped off his Kingsguard cloak and left it at the foot of her bed, a heap on the floor. Sansa wanted so badly to ask him about that night, to ask if he remembered the song he was going to take from her, but he spoke first.

"Well, if you followed me, you must want something. Spit it out, girl." He took a few steps towards her, limping just slightly, and gods, he was so tall. She forgot about it after all these years. Even if she had grown, and even if she had never been short for a girl to begin with, he towered over her. It was intimidating and exhilarating to have to look up to really meet him face to face.

"I'm a girl no longer," Sansa retorted, letting her eyes bravely jump to both sides of his face. "You know that."

"Aye, the Imp saw to that, I heard," he muttered, his voice surprisingly bitter.

"Tyrion and I never...I was never his wife, not entirely," she whispered. _No, Ramsey is the only husband I've truly had. But do not say such things to him. It will anger him_. "He was good to me, like you were."

Sandor let out a gravely laugh. "Which would you have preferred, little bird? The shrunken pervert or the ugly murderer?"

Even as he words stung her, she recalled her dreams of him, of him crawling into her marriage bed instead of her short husband. "Do not think ill of him, please."

"That'll be easy as long as he's far away," he allowed. "Now tell me why you're here."

"I only...I only wanted to speak to you. Privately, without Jon or soldiers around. To ask--to ask you what became of you when you left King's Landing. I," she inhaled, "missed you, and thought of you often."

He said nothing for a moment, and it seemed like her words caused him physical pain. His eyes were so sad that she wanted to reach out, but before she could they were as cold as the stone they resembled. "Your thoughts were wasted on me, little bird. You should have been thinking about prettier things."

"I was surrounded by enemies, no matter where I fled. I thought Petyr would keep me safe in the Vale, but I had to pretend to be his bastard. My aunt almost killed me, before Petyr killed her. And then I was given to the Boltons, who were no friends to my family. Forgive me for fixating on the one person who did not seek to harm me." She hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but she sucked in a breath before he could interrupt her. "I should have gone with you. I regret that more than anything. I might have made it to my mother and brother before..."

"You'd just be dead," Sandor said. "No point in dwelling." His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out and touch her, but it stayed down by his side. "I had meant to talk to you eventually, just not in a bloody stable. You don't normally meet ladies where horses shit."

Years ago, Sansa would have flinched at his vulgarities, but she'd been in war camps for too long, and around that ginger-bearded man enough to know every combination possible. "We could...go somewhere more comfortable."

Sandor laughed, turning slightly to give Stranger a good scratch behind his ear. It was like she remembered--like letting gravel fall between your fingers and hit the hard ground. "I'll follow you wherever you go, little bird."

His words made her chest flutter, but she just smiled at him and sat down on a bench against the wall, arranging her skirts around her legs appropriately. She noticed that he almost looked a lord, in his fine leather boots and new tunic. "Still so proper," he commented, watching her hands smooth down her thighs. "So, masquerading as a bastard didn't rob you of your delicate manners?"

The question was posed in a teasing manner--Sansa felt heat rise to her face, so used to his quips being cruel or self-deprecating. "I had to deal with a lot more than a lady would have had to."

"You would have been dragging your blistered feet through the woods, if you'd followed me," Sandor told her. "You wouldn't have your silk dresses or your hot baths. No shiny knights with white teeth. Just me."

She paused for a second. "It would have been better."

_I would have been with you_.

-

"You're sure?"

Sansa had met Jon in his rooms, and he was still taking his breakfast when she put her request before him.She watched her half-brother pick at his food, noting how listless he seemed to be sometimes.

"Yes, Jon. There's not a single man I trust here more, save for you."

"And...he's already agreed to it?" Jon asked, cutting his meat into small pieces instead of eating it.

"He offered me his sword, and his life. There is no one more capable of protecting us, believe me."

"You've attracted quite the following," Jon commented, putting down his fork and knife. She noted the lines under his dark eyes, and how the curl in his hair was limp--had the red woman's magic poisoned him somehow? Or was something weighing heavily on his mind? "First Lady Brienne, now the Hound. I think it's safe to say we don't ever have to worry about your well-being." She did have to agree with him. It was hard to imagine anyone ever hurting her again with such fearsome people loyal to her.

"He won't just be my shield. He can be yours as well. He can lead your men, and train boys to fight."

"Is he as good as people say he is? I haven't ever seen the man in a battle, but I shan't be the first to test his abilities," Jon chuckled a little, "gods have pity on the man that does."

-

As her sworn shield, Sandor took post at her door at night. Sansa had no idea when the man slept, because he was awake when she bid him good night, and he was still standing there in the bright morning. She was too shy now to take her morning walks, so she stayed in her room during those restless hours, drinking in the cold air from her window. Organized her clothes by color, dusted the surfaces, made her bed, shook out the curtains, swept the stone. Evette was beginning to complain that there was naught for her to do after dressing her lady.

She could not stand it today, and opened the door to a shocked Sandor, who raised his eyebrow at her informal appearance. "Thought you were still dreaming, little bird," he said. "There a reason you're about to leave in your nightgown?"

It was a very modest gown, but she had still wrapped herself in a robe as well, mostly to shield herself from the winds. Sandor seemed fascinated by her, though, even reaching forward to pull on a ribbon at her collar. "Seems a useless thing."

"Some pretty things are," she admitted, wanting to touch his hand as he pulled it away from her. "As of late I've been an early riser. Walking in the crispness without too many layers helps chase the fogginess from my mind." She hesitated for just a second. "Join me?"

He laughed. "I'm to follow you anyway, _Lady Stark_."

He meant it as a jape, but it still gave her great pleasure to hear him call her by her family name, as everyone was meant to. Sansa gave him a bright smile, which caught him off guard, and brushed past him silently. He did as he said and followed closely behind her. She could almost feel the heat he radiated, and it felt good, right, to have him by her shoulder as she paused to look out over the camps surrounding her home. She heard noise from below, but it was indistinct. She was concentrating hard on the snow melting under her slippers when she felt Sandor's fingers wrap around her braid, fingering the loose hair at the end. "I heard some of the wildling folk say that your king's campaign is bound to win because his sister is 'kissed by fire'. Seems everyone has a fancy for red hair, north or south."

She blushed and turned to face him, feeling it tug on her scalp as her braid pulled from his grasp. "They regard it as a sign of good luck," Sansa whispered. "Only because it is rare, though."

Sandor stepped closer, and she felt more heat rise to her face. Some small part of her wanted to press herself back against the stone behind her and turn her face away, but she clenched her fists and stayed put. _He is not Ramsey_. He took her braid in his hands again, and smirked a little. "Ironic, then," he mumbled, and her heart clenched. Before he would inevitably draw away from her, she reached up and grasped his hand in hers, looking up at him with her blue eyes wide open, hoping he would be able to see into her mind. She wanted to say the words bouncing around in her skull. _I am sorry you did not get to kill your brother. I am sorry people have laughed at you or cursed you. I am sorry the fire kissed you_. He was leaning down to her; Sansa closed her eyes, seeing wildfire and feeling the knife on her throat, but just as she could feel his breath on her mouth, a wolf howled in the distance, long and mournful. For some reason, it made Sansa's throat close up.

When she opened her eyes, he had let her go, and had left to begin his routine without her.

-

Sandor remained by her side, but deflected her attempts at conversation most times. She was surprised at how much it stung in her gut whenever he would say "Yes, Lady Stark," and nothing more--the unguarded speech between them had always been a sort of comfort, even when she was too young and soft to handle his tone and language. He had not even kissed her, but he acted as if he had violated her.

He had taken to training young boys from both the freefolk and Winter's Town, barking at them early in the morning until the sun began to descend for dusk. Mothers and fathers alike grumbled a bit at the bruises and scrapes that adorned the children at the end of the day, but their bright eyes and exclamations prevented any real conflict. It gave her pleasure to watch over the lessons at dawn, hiding away in one of the many corners of her castle (gods, how it still felt strange to call it 'hers'). Sandor only really came alive when he was fighting, it seemed to her; his lips curled upwards more, and his tone, while always brash, contained a level of ease that made the boys relax. Sansa kept a close eye on his leg, wondering if a brace of some sort could be made for him.

One morning, she had peeked her head out and the wind blew some of her hair loose. The sudden red against white caught his eye and he, almost eerily, snapped his gaze to her post. The princess only stared back at him, and quickly ducked down and left as quietly as she could. She felt shame, not knowing why.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should also probably mention there's some triggering imagery. No actual violence, really, but still.

"We don't have a choice, Sansa. The letters from the Watch are getting more and more ominous. We have to ride south and beg the queen for her help. If we don't act as soon as we're able, the Night King and his dead will spill over the Wall and into our lands. We won't be able to stop them, not without her dragons."

Her brother and Sam sat with her in Jon's solar; the room was warm, but they still sat near the fire, and so near to each other that their knees bumped.

"So you are leaving me here, again?" She hadn't meant for the words to sound so small and sad.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Jon told her, reaching for her hand. She gave it to him, but felt too weak to return his squeeze. "I shall write to you, and tell you everything that happens. I'll leave a good force of men to protect the walls..."

"You don't need to comfort me, Jon," Sansa whispered. "I only pray for a time that we can be a real family again."

She helped him fold his clothes properly, as he was always leaving his clothes in piles and wads. The snow was falling so heavily outside, it seemed she could hear it, like rain through layers of stone--but she realized as a drop hit the back of her hand it was the sound of her crying as quietly as she could.

-  
Sansa saw her brother off before the sun rose the next morning. It was difficult to see him in the dark, as he was adorned all in black, but he still found her face in the dark and kissed her forehead so hard she felt his teeth press against her. "We'll ride hard and be back with the Dragon Queen's army."  
  
"Be safe, my king," Sansa muttered, feeling useless as he climbed his horse and left their home once more. She knew how her mother felt when their father had left to fight--Jon was obviously not her husband, but even if she loved him, it was more frustrating to not be a part of these kinds of things. She experienced it rarely, but she wished she had been born a man, so that the anger deep in her heart could be sated and she would be justified in acting upon it.  
  
Sandor was, of course, standing behind her as she lingered in the courtyard, keeping her eyes on the Stark banners waving enthusiastically as they galloped further and further away. "We should head inside, my lady," he grunted.  
  
How long had it been since he called her 'little bird'? She wanted to clench her fists but decided instead to ignore him. Let the snow pile on her. Let it bury her.  
  
"Sansa."  
  
She closed her eyes at the sound of him uttering her name. Speak more, if only to incite action or reaction. How could she bear Jon's absence if Sandor would not speak to her? How long had she gone without speaking the words bouncing around in her skull?  
  
She heard a heavy breath, like a sigh, before his fingers wrapped around her elbow, tugging her gently backwards. The Hound would have taken her back inside whether she wanted to or not, but Sandor brushed the snow from her shoulders with his other hand. "He'll be fine," he said in a low voice.  
  
Sansa shook her head. "That's not..." She stopped herself, knowing his reaction might be mocking if she expressed her wish to fight. Shaking her head once more, she spun on her heel and brushed past her shield, the frustration burning between her ribs like a coal. The crunch of the snow behind Sansa told her that he was following her, and she quickened her pace with the intent to lose him. She knew this castle like she knew her stories and songs. Once inside, it was only a matter of seconds before she was alone and running through the halls like she was ten years old again, being chased by Theon and Robb. Sandor would find her, eventually--he was too clever, and he knew her more than anyone.   
  
The pool underneath the weirwood tree was frozen, the ice black and smooth like obsidian. Sansa settled herself down beneath the leaves, her back pressed into the cold, hard bark. Her father would always come here in times of turmoil, seeking refuge with the gods his father and grandfather had worshiped. Being a neat child, she liked the ceremony and colors of the Seven, but what she really enjoyed was being with her mother, observing her as the Lady of Winterfell, dreaming of holding such a position one day. Thinking of it now made her stomach clench. Though, she supposed if she had never met Joffery, she might have been quite happy, married to some boring lord and giving birth far too early. The events in her past had changed her into a very different woman than she imagined herself being at eleven years old.  
  
Some time passed before Sandor discovered her beneath the heart tree. Sansa's knees were beginning to shake underneath her skirts but she had her arms wrapped around her legs, to keep him from seeing. She probably looked diminutive and childish. He didn't appear vexed, though; he sat near her, looking very much like her father in stance and aura that her throat clamped shut to keep the sob in her chest.  
  
After a long silence, he spoke out into the cold air, "My family didn't keep a godswood. Didn't even have a sept on the grounds."  
  
"That doesn't surprise me. My father had our sept built so my mother would feel more at home. Not every family acknowledges both."  
  
"If there had been a corner like this in my keep, I'd never bloody leave."  
  
Silence again. Sansa wanted to fill the space between them with more words, but mostly she just wanted to press herself into his side and be warm.  
  
"Tell me why you're trying to freeze to death before Snow comes back." Even his gentlest of tones had a gravelly edge to it.  
  
Sansa wanted to say he wouldn't understand, but she knew that to be untrue. She thinned her lips and looked at him from under her eyelashes. "I'll go mad here," she whispered, willing her eyes to stay dry. "I am the Lady of Winterfell, but what else is there to do besides make sure everyone is fed and warm? I know it is important, but after seeing what I have, fighting for as long as I have, it makes me feel irrelevant to stay here." Letting out a long exhale, she turned her vision up towards the red leaves of the weirwood. "Jon is no good at negotiation, or compromise. His nobility is admirable, but it gives him tunnel-vision. I...I could be a mediator, something." Sansa felt tears well up. "I fled my own home twice because I felt like the walls were keeping me from somewhere better. Now that it is mine, and mostly rebuilt... I only want to leave it again."  
  
"Little bird."  
  
Hearing him call her that once more broke her resistance. Sansa wept without making a sound, something she had perfected with years of practice. Joffery and Ramsey only wanted to hit her more when she made noise. Sandor seemed unaware of her response, and continued to speak. "There will be a time for fighting. For now, we prepare for the winter and for the wars ahead. For now, you wear your pretty skirts and be the lady of the castle. Poor folk need to see a Stark on the throne and know that the fucking skinners are gone for good." A short pause. "You hate it, but you're damn good at it, being a lady. Always have been, even when you had songs in your head."  
  
 _They're still there.  
_  
"Isn't this what you wanted, little bird?"  
  
She could not answer, at least, not truthfully. While she had Jon, Winterfell, and Sandor, so many pieces were missing. Arya and Bran were still missing, and Rickon lay moldering next to their father's bones. Ramsey had not even received a grave, as there had been nothing left to bury, but she was still known to be a widow. Soon, suitors would begin arriving, and as a princess, she would have to choose one of them, or risk losing an alliance. If she told Jon she wanted to marry for love, she was sure he would not force her into anything, but she already knew the reactions of the other noble houses. Years ago, she would have been ecstatic at the prospect of suitors lining up to win her favor, but now...  
  
"Sansa."  
  
"We should return to the castle. I'm sure someone is looking for me," she whispered, managing to wipe her tears with the long sleeves of her cloak without him noticing them frosting on her eyelashes. She did not even have to look at him, to feel the anger rolling off his person, another trait picked up from years of living with abusers. He surprised her again by not reacting physically the way the Hound would have; he called after her as she began to walk out of the clearing, "No one's looking for you. Sun has set. This isn't King's Landing, where you have to sew your fucking mouth shut before you get it full of blood."  
  
She only shook her head and left him.  
  
-  
  
_Sister,_  
 _I apologize for the lull of communication. Despite yours and Sam's lectures upon my previous arrival, my shortsightedness when it comes to writing letters has not improved. We finally have a brief moment today, and our maester kindly reminded me to send word to my sister back home._  
 _I already have three letters from you, so I can only imagine how eventful it is in Winterfell. I am envious of your busy but calm days. Since meeting the queen and combining our armies, the Red Keep is crowded and King's Landing is full of soldiers and refugees. It is strange to see Dothraki here, but they seem more perplexed by us, with our furs. Ghost is popular, at least._  
 _The Dragon Queen gave Cersei a proper funeral, which I found odd, but I've come to understand that she has a gentle heart. Knowing you as I do, however, I am aware such a trait is not inherent of weakness. She has put out a warrant for Ser Jamie, but there's been no sighting of him since his campaign to Riverrun. Tyrion is her Hand (he sends his regards, though I know not how this will effect you), and he's doing an honorable job of adjusting the remaining noble houses to the new status quo. All the rotten seeds in Cersei's garden have been uprooted, and I hope new and better things take their place._  
 _The dragons are...well. There are ten million words I could use. Being near them is the closest I can imagine one feels being next to a god. With Daenerys near, they are mostly complacent, and they oddly seem to prefer Tyrion's company when she's absent (I would never say it to his face, but it's quite funny to see him standing next to such large creatures). The black one tends to be restless, and spends most of its time flying over the ocean, catching anything of size that it can grab. Its siblings, green and gold and much more mild-tempered, seem to only enjoy playing with each other or drowsing. One would think them dull, but a single look in their eyes is enough to tell you--there's as much going on in its mind as yours. I get the same feeling with Ghost._  
 _I've spoken highly of you to the queen, and she seems quite interested in meeting you. There are still matters to settle here, but we will be returning before the worst of the winter with Daenerys Stormborn and her dragons. I know you will enjoy her company. She reminds me a great deal of you._  
 _I shall send another letter as soon as time permits, so forgive me for any delays._  
 _Jon  
_  
Such a short letter, after so long a time. Sansa sat alone in the great hall, the parchment laid flat in front of her on the table, while the fire burned low and softly behind her. Everyone had long since gone to bed, but the princess remained in her mother's seat, staring straight ahead of her. So many terrible and beautiful things had happened in this room, but she mostly longed for her mother again. It felt sinful to be sitting there, but she was Lady Stark now. Sansa's fingers clenched the armrests, thinking of Jon in the Red Keep. The lions had been cleaned out, certainly, but there were so many shadows for enemies to hide in. Was he safe in such a place, even if Daenerys ruled now? If only she were there, to advice caution. She could only write, and pray to the old gods and the new.  
  
"The lady seems pensive."  
  
 _Petyr_. His voice was always so distinctive, sliding through the air like oil on top of water. More than like, he had been watching her for a while, which put her on edge. Sansa tilted her head towards the direction of his voice, but deigned not to reply. With Sandor close by, he could no longer intervene on her walks, and there seemed to be a mutual understanding that Sandor would not react kindly to his presence--it had been a relief, but it was only a matter of time before he cornered her again.   
  
"Our King seems forthcoming with his activities. Perhaps he is engaged in much that does not require your knowing," Littlefinger cooed, stepping out from his hiding spot. Always so slim and straight-backed. Eleven-year-old Sansa had swooned at his clever words, but she knew the rotten flesh he hid behind shiny pomades.   
  
"Your insinuation eludes me," she replied coldly.   
  
"He should have sent you to the capital city, you know it was a mistake for him to go." He slipped through the rows of benches to get closer to her--Sansa lifted her chin a bit, reminding him of her superior position. The skinny man stopped in front of the table, as if he were officially addressing her. "Is he keeping you here for a reason? Is there something going on that he doesn't want you to interfere in?"  
  
"You are hardly in a position to insult my brother in such a way, considering you have no evidence of any foul play on his part," Sansa said, her eyes hard and narrow. "And you insult me by assuming I know nothing. From the beginning you have tried to create a rift between me and Jon. You want the North."  
  
"I want you," he corrected.  
  
Sansa stood. "They are the same to you. Land and titles and power, with the face of Catelyn Tully. I am not naive enough to think you love me for any other reason than I am my mother's daughter, and you want the influence that my house will give you if you marry me. I saw how you manipulated my aunt with my own eyes. You made her believe you loved her, when you only wanted the Eryie." She suddenly felt very tired, and sat back down, closing her eyes. "I do not want to marry you, and I do not want the Seven Kingdoms. You have guest-welcome here, Lord Baelish, and my gratitude for your help in reclaiming my home. But nothing more than that. Please leave me."  
  
She was certain he had a rebuke, but he only gave her a sweeping bow and a quiet, "my lady," before retreating back into the darkness where he was most at ease. Only the crackling of the fire and the ice forming in her heart kept her company.  
  
-  
  
Half a year had gone, and Jon was still not home. His letters remained brief, and the worsening weather kept him from returning with haste. Sansa tried to remain bright, but she could not help but linger on what would happen if he were to die. Would she become Queen? Worse, would the houses that had gathered disperse because they would be unwilling to follow a woman? Her dreams became increasingly realistic--she could see her brother burning another three men after the cold stole them in their sleep, and the Night's Watch struggling to keep the wights from crossing over and under the Wall. She often visited Sandor while he slept, and wished she sneak under the covers and let his size comfort her, like it had when she had slept with her father as a girl.  
  
That evening she sat by her open window, in naught but a slip, letting the frosty air encircle her. A letter to Jon lay on her desk, but she could barely think of what to write. Part of her just wanted to send a page full of _I miss you_ s, but it seemed a bit too extreme. The wolves were quiet this evening. Perhaps they felt as subdued as she did.  
  
There was a knock on her door, and she called out a welcome, thinking it would be Evette, but the heavy footsteps told a different story. Sansa turned around to see her shield standing in her room, looking queer without his armor. He had never entered her quarters before; her heart began to beat a little faster as he closed the door behind him and took a couple steps towards the middle of the room.  
  
He grunted. "Fucking cold in here."  
  
It felt like such a long time since they had been alone together, and before she could reason herself out of her, she was up and across the room to him. Sandor took a step back like he was afraid of her, but she wrapped her arms around his torso anyway, reveling in the scent of leather and musk. "Little bird--" he started, his voice tight and uncomfortable.  
  
"I am sorry," Sansa whispered. "I am only lonely."  
  
Sandor paused, and slowly returned her embrace. Sansa tried to quell the dread in her stomach; before she could stop it, it came spilling out of her mouth in a torrent. Her heart was wild with worry for Jon, and her desire to ride out into the blizzards that ceaselessly divided them increased with every week. With no news of Bran or Arya, still, she would be the only Stark left in the world, and everyone would be clamoring to claim her land and title before she grew old. Marriage was always in the corner of her mind--Petyr made sure of that, though his proposals had become more vague and scattered. She would have to marry eventually, but she could not bear the thought of having a man chosen for her, even if it was Jon who did the choosing. When his fingers tightened on her arms, she realized that such talk was making him angry. Looking at his face, though, she could see it was not directed at her.   
  
"It is selfish to worry about my future when my brother's life is at risk," she finished meekly. "Forgive my outburst--"  
  
"Don't," Sandor snapped. He pulled her away from him so he could gaze down at her properly, which made her want to simultaneously hide and display herself. "Put a bloody robe on," he murmured. "You'll get sick."  
  
He let her go, and she did as he commanded, grateful for his reaction. There were multiple violent reactions from Ramsey she could expect if she wore something like that in front of him. As she pulled the long sleeves on, she heard him settling down into a chair--it protested under his weight, used to Sansa's lithe frame. She sat opposite him, observing him in his awkward position, much too big for her furniture; such a sight made her want to smile, but she figured doing so would vex him.   
  
Sandor was nervous, though, she could tell. A hard man like him, who had cut down women and children, was anxious to be alone in a lady's room. The inclination to smile came twice. He glanced towards the window, watching the snow sneak in and dust the stone floor. The silence was taut, but not uncomfortable. Sansa was content to sit, but he began to speak again: "Jon isn't your damn father. He might be King in the North, but he's no right over your choices. And even if he dies, there's still no one ordering you to do anything."  
  
"You don't understand," she mumbled miserably. "Even if no one commands me to, the implication will always be there. Women will sneer, men will laugh, maesters will shake their head."  
  
"Aren't you done giving a shit what people think of you?"  
  
"I..." The princess hung her head. "I wish I could be."  
  
There was silence again, and she had the feeling there was much in his mind he wanted to voice. Sandor only sighed, though, running a hand through his black hair and leaning back into his chair. "What am I even doing in here?" he muttered. "Couldn't sleep, and somehow, I knew you couldn't either."  
  
Sansa felt a small thrill run up her spine, wondering if he really did feel her while she was dreaming in his room, but she only tilted her head at him. "You stopped drinking?" she asked.  
  
"Aye," grunted Sandor, looking a tiny bit depressed about it. "Vow of silence came with a vow of sobriety. Dug a lot of graves to keep myself from going completely mad."  
  
"What was it like, living with the monks?" She had never thought to inquire, being so engulfed in his return.   
  
The tall man shrugged, scratching at the unburnt side of his face. "Simple life. Lot of hard work that needed to be done--most of them were getting old and their knees were shite. If you think I was reciting prayers and kneeling for five hours every day, you're not as clever as I thought." Sansa pouted a bit, but he continued. "I'll admit that it was good for me, in the end, but no way in seven Hells would I ever choose that life. Old man could ramble on and on about the gods but all I wanted was wine."  
  
"If you left, there's nothing stopping you from having some," she pointed out, eyeing the pitcher that was kept near the fire, spiced and warm.   
  
"Suppose that's true, but I've grown used to compensating."  
  
They said nothing again for a while; Sansa rose to fill two glasses of the red for them, and she felt Sandor's eyes on her back the whole time. He had always watched her differently than the other men in her life. Certainly his gaze could be lustful, but it never crossed the line to be leering or strange. He seemed to pay more attention to her hair and face than her body, unless she was in something like this, where, without the robe, the outline of her body could be seen if she stood near the fire. She handed him his glass, but did not return to her seat. Part of her was enjoying the fact that his eyes would be on her if she were moving. Sansa crossed to the window to close it, but was pulled back in by the sounds and smells of the winter night. It was so different from King's Landing. The scent of the ocean made the air humid, and it seemed even if she wore the lightest silk, it would stick to her skin eventually; now, she was gifted with the most absolute silence she could imagine. Feet of snow absorbed almost all the regular evening noises, and the frigid air made her feel clean and awake. She absently took a sip of her mulled wine, feeling it settle in her tummy.   
  
"You're a proper woman, little bird," Sansa heard her shield say behind her. "You keep your shoulders straight now."  
  
Such a compliment warmed her. His admiration was worth more than any man's love.  
  
"It's not without effort," she whispered out the window, not thinking he would hear her. Distracted by her wine, she didn't notice that he had left his seat and came to stand by her. He reached across her to close the window--his proximity made her heart jump, but she managed to keep her appearance calm.   
  
"Don't doubt it," he replied. "But you've never been stronger, have you?"  
  
She considered all the times she hid in her room from Joffery's punishments, all the times she had laid there thinking of killing herself rather than paying attention to what Ramsey was doing. "No, I haven't."  
  
Sandor stepped in between the closed window and her, forcing her back a couple of paces to maintain distance. He had a look on his face that was...unfamiliar. His features were too soft, they seemed to blend together a tiny bit. It made the soles of her feet tingle, so she spun around and returned to the fire, gulping down the rest of her cup like she had been drinking her whole life. She refilled her glass and took another deep drink. "You remember the night you came to me, the night the Blackwater was burning?" Sansa inquired, gazing into the hearth. "The smell was horrific, but what was worse was knowing Joff would live through it all. It would've been the perfect time to escape--everyone thought the castle would fall, and for once no one seemed to be looking at me at all. But you," she turned her head to see him observing her with that same odd expression, "you came to me because I was the only one who knew your secret."  
  
"I wish I could erase that," he hissed quietly. "You were a child, and I had a knife to your throat and dark thoughts in my mind."  
  
She ignored him. "I kept your Kingsguard cloak with me for years. It was a great comfort in the Eryie, but I had to get rid of it before I married Ramsey. Littlefinger had found it, and--" Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget his anger that she might love someone else than him. "--I burned it, which seems ironic now. I always dream of that night, over and over, each second slowed down and sped up and repeated. I could taste your tears when you kissed me."  
  
That caught his attention. Immediately, he took a step towards her and his expression changed to something more familiar. "I didn't kiss you," he growled. "I wanted to do much worse than that."  
  
She rose her chin at him. "But you did. Your mouth had blood in it, and I could smell the wine on your breath."  
  
Sandor looked rightly angry now. "I couldn't even bear the sound of your tiny, childish voice singing that fucking hymn. It made me want to run straight into that unnatural, gods-damned fire. Were you really fantasizing all these years about me forcing myself on you?"  
  
Her eyes went wide. "I...I'm not. It truly happened."  
  
"If I had kissed you, Sansa, I would have remembered it," he told her sharply. "I'd be the one dreaming of it at night if that were the case."  
  
The princess couldn't think of a response, so she only dejectedly put her attention back on her wine, nursing it in silence while Sandor fumed. After a moment, he spoke again. "Why even bring it up?"  
  
Sansa hesitated. "Because...I was expecting a different reaction to the memory." She blushed when his brow furrowed at her, and some of his irritation melted away at the sight. Sandor exhaled through his nose, running one hand through his hair, looking as handsome as he could in the firelight (enough for Sansa). "I wasn't trying to accuse you. I'm sorry if it seemed that way, Sandor."  
  
She watched his shoulders relax. "You kept that bloody cloak?"  
  
"You were the only good thing in King's Landing. I wanted to keep you as close as I could."  
  
"But you went with Littlefinger."  
  
"I know. He loved my mother, so I thought he would be loyal to me. I quickly learned that was naive, and that Petyr is loyal to no one but himself and his interests." Such a thing was obvious when he married her to Ramsey. "I'm not sure where I would be right now if I did end up going with you that night, but I know I wouldn't change my decision, now that we're here."  
  
She finished her third glass (when had that happened?) and moved to refill it when Sandor shook his head. "Your cheeks are flushed, little bird." He brushed past her to take her cup and set it down next to the pitcher. Sansa noted that he hadn't even touched the wine she had given him, despite voicing frustration at not drinking it anymore. Such a soldier, in all ways of his life. When he turned to return to his seat, she neglected to move out of his way, and was struck at the difference in their heights. Sansa was tall for a woman, certainly, but her chin tilted up to look him in the eye. She felt small, but in a pleasant way, so unlike all the other times in her life before where she had wished to shrink until no one could see her. Small as in precious, and handled with care and love.  
  
Before he could stop himself, Sandor reached up to feel her cheek, and the coolness of his fingers in contrast with the heat from her skin gave her goosepimples. By the look in his eyes, she knew he was thinking on what she said earlier, about the un-kiss. She wished ardently that he would actually kiss her now; when she closed her eyes, however, his hand drew away from her, and it was difficult not to let out a disappointed sigh. Instead, she whispered, "You've changed so much, it's dizzying."  
  
"You've surprised me a couple of times so far," he replied. His voice was farther away--when she opened her eyes, he was halfway across the room, bringing his full cup to his mouth to gulp it down. Some of it dripped down his beard, and it glittered in the firelight before he wiped it away with his sleeve. _So much for restraint_ , Sansa thought. "Should be heading back now. I've been here too long."  
  
"I thought you didn't give a shit what people think?" she teased, repeating his words from earlier, and he raised both his eyebrows at her vulgarity.   
  
"Aye, but you're a princess now, little bird. There are lines I can't cross."  
  
_Yes, you can. You are only afraid to._  
  
"I wish you would stay," she blurted out, the wine making her feel a little too bold. "Talk with me more, pass the rest of the night in each others company."  
  
"You don't mean that," Sandor snapped, but he sounded more sullen than angry.   
  
"I do."  
  
He took in a deep breath, and clenched both his fists before spinning on his heels to walk to her door. Following him would seem foolish, even if she wanted to do it anyway. She stayed by the fire, though, feeling rather dejected as the door closed behind him. She listened to his heavy footsteps, and traced his route back to his room in her mind. She knew his routine intimately, having observed him in her dreams countless times. He would pop his neck and back, pull his tunic up over his head and scratch his scalp. Sandor always struggled taking off his boots, still not used to the higher grade and intricate buckles and laces. As a ghost, she would kneel before him and pretend that she was taking them off for him after a long day. His bed was a little too small for him, but she assumed he was used to it, because he never grumbled about it. She thought about her bed, with all the space that seemed to swallow her.  
  
As she crawled under her furs, a single wolf cried out in the darkness. Somehow, she knew it was a female, and that it meant something, something she couldn't comprehend yet. Sansa could only ponder it in her sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M TRYING

Sansa had blood in her mouth.

It was very unlike what she was used to. After Ramsey would be done, she'd rinse her mouth out carefully, look at her own reflection in the pink water rather than look at him for a second more than she was forced to. Most of the time, whatever mocking words he said were muffled, like her ears were full of sand, but if she didn't respond in some way, he'd come up behind her and-

That didn't matter now. He was dead, his dogs were dead, his father, his house, his men, his woman. They were all food for worms, now, while she was digging her claws deep into the dirt and savoring the richness of her prize. Right now, she was powerful. She could feel her muscles moving, in her hind legs and her shoulders. If she hadn't killed him before, she could do it again, now, only it would be her fangs in his throat.

She wouldn't eat a single bite of him. She'd give him to her pack. He would never be inside of her again.

When she woke up, the sensation lingered in her body; her furs and clothes felt oppressive, so she took them off and pressed her hands flat into her abdomen. Whatever was swirling inside of her seemed to be settling there. Sansa had the wild impulse to run, and she almost did-her calves tensed and her knees bent, but a hand reached out and grabbed her bed post, to keep her legs from sprinting.

 _What is happening to me?_  
  
When she looked in the mirror, there were red flakes stuck in her teeth.

* * *

She hesitated to call them nightmares, but sleep became difficult and strange. Her body seemed to be calling out for something, but her mind could not comprehend it; her heart seemed to burn through her skin and clothes, exposing itself to the winter air. More than anything, Sansa wanted her brother home, and the comforting feeling of Ghost's fur against her legs as he settled himself down by her feet. The direwolf seemed to always smell her stress, and knew his company eased her. And she knew that Ghost missed his sister. Maybe Lady's scent clung to her skirts? Either way, the pack in the woods kept guard, and she was up one morning, leaning over the walls, drinking in the sounds of their living. It seemed each day, her ears could hear a little farther, and her eyes a little clearer.

The rising sun almost obscured the lone figure riding towards Winterfell. Sansa's gaze caught them, though, and she watched in apprehension as the minutes brought whoever it was closer to her. The horse appeared to be straining, while the person kept their back straight and their head pointed towards her castle. Close enough now that she could see the rips and tears in their cloak, the stranger pulled back hard on the reigns and brought their mount to a halt. The tired animal stayed quiet and still as the rider dismounted.

There was no one at the gate, so Sansa called out from her post: "You approach the seat of House Stark. What business do you have here?"

Oddly, the sound of her voice seemed to make them flinch, as if they were guilty or afraid. They did not look up to meet her eyes, but instead spoke to the snow, which almost swallowed their reply. "Here you are, lady of a hold after all. I had barely any hope at all once I got back, but every settlement on the way north is talking about the new King in the North and his princess sister."

Her fingernails scrapped against the stone as her hands clenched. Something about their voice was familiar, like a noise or smell from her childhood.

"I never thought I should see these walls again. Or the snow. Or my family. But I found my way back, and I-"

"Stop," Sansa inhaled sharply, wanting irrationally to jump from her post to reach them. "You-you cannot be..."

They neglected to properly answer; finally they pulled back their hood and met Sansa's eyes. Grey, like snow after rain, or old silver. As if in affirmation, the pack in the wolfswood let out a howl, the sound stretching out over the hills and trying to push them together again. Sansa did not try to continue or wait-she turned and ran as fast as she could, her slippers getting soaked and her hair coming loose, but she reached the gate and tried desperately to lift the bar before it finally lifted and the wooden doors swung open to reveal Arya Stark standing only a few feet away from her. It struck her again, swiftly like wind, and it was like seeing Jon again for the first time. For a few seconds, Sansa was only aware of the distance between her and her sister and the cold seeping through her shoes.

Arya scoffed. "After all this time, you're still prettier than me and every other girl in Westeros."

It broke the spell, and Sansa could only let out a single sob before rushing to embrace her. Arya let out an oof as their bodies collided, and only hesitated for a second before her arms went around Sansa's shoulders. "You're alive," Sansa whispered, "gods. How did you make it through the storms? Where were you all these years? You're so skinny, have you not been eating well? Come, come inside, let's get your horse into a warm stable and feed him, he looks almost dead."

Her sister looked amused but silently obeyed, taking hold of her exhausted mount's reins and leading him into the courtyard. Arya immediately stopped, however, and her eyes were jumping everywhere, noting the changes and admiring the things that stayed the same. Sansa knew what she was feeling, so she left her behind for a moment to take care of her horse. The only empty stall was next to Stranger, but the horse had grown used to her, and only seemed a little irritated by his new neighbor. "Thank you for bringing her home," the princess said lowly. "You'll have food and water in just a second-for now, rest." The creature cast a nervous eye at Stranger, but Sansa could tell it was glad to be out of the cold.

"Arya," she said, her heart bursting. Her hair was uneven and the brown of their father, but the years had changed her face-where before her lips pouted, she held them thin, and now her eyes were narrowed with observation rather than wide with curiosity. Sansa could not even imagine what her sister had had to do to survive, but she had always been resourceful and clever. She wanted to hug her again, but resisted. "Are you hungry?"

Her sister nodded in response, and even though she surely knew the way, she followed closely behind Sansa, reminding her a bit of them as children (only Arya was not tugging on her braid or calling her mean names). It was still too early for the hold to break fast, but there was always bread and butter, which Arya accepted and immediately wolfed down. Sansa grinned, glad that some parts of her had remained; she settled herself on top of a barrel and watched the younger princess eat.

She suddenly felt a strong conviction. _I will not treat you like our parents did_. Catelyn loved Arya, but had neglected her at times in favor of Sansa, only because of their shared femininity. She vowed in her mind to never scold her sister for not acting like a lady, because she was never meant to be one.

"We have much to discuss," Sansa said, "but I suspect it can wait until later this evening. No one is awake to set up a room for you, but I can draw you a bath in my quarters and you're more than welcome to sleep there as well. I've no idea where you came from, but I can guess it was a long journey."

"I'd really like that," Arya replied, sounding almost painfully polite.

"I've missed you." Sansa put all the longings and prayers she had uttered into her words, knowing she was not affectionate like Jon or Robb. "Jon has missed you, too. He'll be home soon, with a lot of company. You'll be quite a surprise."

Her face lit up at that. "I thought about running to Castle Black so many times. Jon was in my thoughts every day. As were you." Arya cast a glance at her feet, wiping away the crumbs on her shirt. "I'm...sorry. For all the things I did to you."

It made Sansa feel sad. "No, I am the one who must apologize. I never accepted you for who you are. I should have loved you regardless if you preferred a bow and arrow to needlework."

She grinned. "Speaking of needlework, I never showed you before, because you would have nagged me to death." She pulled a thin, short blade from under her cloak, gripping it like she had weathered it to her palm. "It's called Needle. Jon had it forged for me the day he left for the Watch. I've kept it with me this whole time. It's actually my favorite sword. Nothing feels as good to swing as this."

"It certainly looks like it was made for you," Sansa commented, admiring Mikken's work. He was dead, now, but part of him lived on. "You're right, I would have told Father and Mother. I was such a brat."

Arya snickered. "So was I. If I remember right, I would always stuff sheep shit into your mattress."

"I deserved it."

"A bath sounds good. I bet I smell like sheep shit right now."

* * *

 _Sansa,_  
  
_Finally, the storms have calmed themselves and we're moving forward again. The dragons can melt a path for us using their fire, so thank the gods we don't have to shovel snow all day and night. Winter is settling in, and while the mornings are unforgivably cold, I open my tent and watch the North, my kingdom, glistening like an ocean, and it is beautiful. It doesn't seem right that it should belong to me, but with your help I think we'll be able to ensure freedom and security for our people._  
  
_I should let you know that several knights have approached me inquiring as to your marital status. I've deflected most of their questions, but just be prepared for more suitors. Gods, it must be a burden to be a woman._  
  
_Daenerys is a remarkable queen, Sansa. She has overcome impossible odds, and has the absolute loyalty of her men. Unlike Cersei, she is kind, especially to women. I'd be an idiot to say she wasn't beautiful, but I think she is like you, in the sense that she is not eager to marry or even...ah. I'm no good at these things, anyway. Robb was always so good at talking to women, like the gods themselves wanted him to. I'm capable of discussing military stratagems with her all day, but she'll turn the conversation towards something personal, and I'll stutter like I'm a boy with no chin-hair again. Either way, I'm eager for you two to become friends. I know you long for a female companion, ever since you lost Jeyne._  
  
_We should be home in two moons, if the weather stays complacent. I look forward to seeing my sister and Winterfell again._  
  
_Your brother,_  
  
_Jon_

* * *

"You're telling me _The Hound_ is your bloody sworn shield."

Three days later, Arya and Sansa were sitting in her old bedroom. Sansa had tried to give her a larger, more comfortable room, but her sister was content with the space of her younger years, and she couldn't exactly blame her for it. Sansa was forced to drag Arya here that evening after she had seen Sandor training boys in the yard, and tried to attack him. It was a little humorous, now, but Sandor seemed furious as Sansa was rushing her away. She would have to apologize for her sister later.

Now, she let out a deep sigh. "Yes, he is. Before you begin, I know all about you traveling with him, and I know that he's on your list, but-"

"He was on my list, but I thought he was dead-"

"If he _was_ , then why did you try to kill him when you saw him?"

Arya hesitated for one second before she looked away from her sister. "One of the last things he ever said to me was how much he wanted to rape you. He was dying, stinking like blood and wine. He was an idiot and drank too much. He heard you got married and acted like the world had ended. I had to watch him sulk all evening before we got ambushed by these assholes. "Fucked you bloody," I think is what he said to me."

"I know, Arya."

"How are you so calm? That man wants to kill and rape you!"

"Arya, _please_. He is not the man he was before. How many years has it been? Almost ten? Give him credit-he would never be a man to stay the same all his life. Besides, he saved me. He protected me from Joff and Cersei, he wanted to bring me home. He came here to swear himself to me and Jon, to serve us as justice for crimes commited to us by the Lannisters. He-" _He loves me_. "-He only wants to keep me safe. There are worse men under this roof right now, and we both know it."

Arya wrinkled her nose, and did not look convinced. "I don't trust it at all. I should have killed him back then."

"I'm glad you didn't, actually."

"What, do you fancy him?"

"Arya."

"Gods, you do. _You do_. That's disgusting. You do know he's missing half of his face, right? Besides, I thought you preferred men who were more symmetrical."

"Give me some credit, too," Sansa replied, a little cold. "I'm not a naive little girl anymore. Besides, if I did fancy him, it wouldn't really be your business. It wouldn't be anyone's business at all." The princess took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "All I ask is that you don't try to kill him. You don't have to speak to him, or sit next to him, or anything at all, just don't charge at him while he's in the middle of a lesson. Please? He's not here just for me. Jon has invited him, too. It'd be a sour thing to come home to, his newly found sister committing murder in his keep."

* * *

Sansa was dreaming of mating, only she had shed her human skin and felt her canines as she clenched her teeth down. Another wolf's teeth were nipping at her neck, while two more paced nearby, watching with nervous eyes. Sansa's growl rumbled in her chest-she had chosen her partner, and these two dared to sneak around? She was bigger than both of them, stronger and more clever than the rest of the pack. If those pups drew too close, she'd take an ear or two.

She couldn't imagine that the sensation would be entirely similar, but regardless, it was more pleasant than her violent encounters with human men. Despite the place, her new body, her mind wandered to Sandor, and how he would feel inside of her. It wasn't as if he had never visited her bed in her dreams before, but she was a child, then. She did not know. She supposed that she still didn't, but she was a virgin no more.

Without warning, the dream switched to exactly what she was thinking of; human again, her growls became gasps and the dirt had become her own bed. She was still on her hands and knees, facing away, but she knew it was Sandor behind her, with his hands gripping her waist. Emboldened by her control, she turned and took him by surprise-she pushed him down flat on the mattress with her hands on his chest, and before he could protest at all, she sunk herself down onto him again, letting out a contented sigh. This is what she always fantasized that it would be like, late into her lonely nights in the Vale. Sandor let out a low groan when she moved her hips in a rocking motion, and he was looking up at her body and face with an expression of such awe that it made her ministrations more insistent.

He pulled her head down to him and kissed her, gently compared to her enthusiastic bouncing, and whispered against her mouth, "Is this a dream?"

"Maybe not," she replied, licking his bottom lip, feeling the burnt and smooth side. It made him shudder, which fascinated her and made her feel powerful.

"It has to be," Sandor muttered, running both his hands down her back to grip her flesh. "You'd never let me touch you like this-"

Sansa silenced his doubts with another kiss. It seemed cruel that even in a hallucination, Sandor hated himself. He sat himself up, still holding onto her, and took the control straight from her-like her wolf mate, he bit down on her shoulder, and she let out a loud cry, not worrying that anyone would hear her. "Sandor," she whimpered, "something is going to happen-" It was like someone was pulling a knot tighter and tighter in her stomach, and it was making the backs of her knees sweat. He sped up at her words, but before it could happen, whatever it was, her eyes were open and she was alone in her room, covered in moisture and throbbing between the legs.

She immediately got out of bed, throwing open all her windows to let in the winter air, and smelled the smoke before she heard the knocking at her door. Whoever it was didn't wait for her answer, and entered-it was Arya, Needle in her hand and flecks of red on her cheekbones. "Arya?" Sansa's voice was high with confusion, and admittedly her lingering arousal. "What has happened-?" Her sister didn't answer immediately, concentrated on locking the door behind her. Sansa took a second to assess her, and saw no flowing blood from any part of her, besides a small 'c' shaped cut on her cheek. "Arya."

"You need to get dressed, now. Someone is attacking Winterfell. Too busy killing them to see who it was, but then I remembered you up in your tower. Your _sworn shield_ is no where to be seen. Bloody good bodyguard, he is." Arya wiped her blade on the leg of her pants to clean the blood off of it. "We need to get you out of here."

"No," Sansa cried out. "No, I will not flee! I will not be forced from my home again!"

"You can't fight, stupid," she snapped. "We need to-"

There was a commotion outside of her door, steel on steel and men yelling. Sansa's knees locked at the sound of it, so close to her, but Arya didn't seem frightened at all. In fact, she appeared to be a mixture of irritated and excited. There was a loud thump, which made Sansa scream, and to her horror, blood started to creep its way under the wood, entering her room sluggishly. She heard the lock break as whoever it was slammed their weight on the door, and if Sansa had not shrieked, " _Wait_!", Sandor Clegane would have ended up with a very slender blade in his throat. Arya pulled back at her sister's yell, inches away from the man's body, and he glowered at her, panting heavily and leaning on his good leg. "Sandor," Sansa whispered, wanting to run to him but knowing Arya would disapprove.

Her shield cast his gaze upon her; despite the setting, he was looking at her strangely, as if she had told him some queer secret. She remembered his eyes in her dream, and his question to her. "It's fucking Littlefinger. Your cousin is dead, and he was named Lord of the Vale. Your pretty knights started attacking just as the moon was rising."

A sheet of ice formed around her heart, and her fists clenched so hard she felt her nails bite into her palms. Who else would it be but Petyr? He had failed to turn her against Jon, and now he was taking matters into his own hands, after proposals turned down and months of idleness. She would not marry him, even if he had helped her get her home back, so he would take it from her again?

She would kill him before that happened.

Sansa lifted her chin. "Do you know where he is?"

"He's no soldier. He'll be hiding out somewhere safe until the dirty work is done."

"There is no where to hide from me. I know this castle as well as I know him. I'm the one who oversaw the restoration while he played his games behind my back." There wasn't time to properly attire herself, so she grabbed her thickest cloak and toughest boots and busied herself with that. Jon had taken the main bulk of their army with him months ago, but his best had remained behind to protect the princess and his keep. No doubt they were all busy fighting and defending the innocents who lived here; she had Sandor and Arya by her side, and did not feel afraid. This time will be different. She would not flee the chaos and disappear into the snow, nor would she watch miles away on a hill while good men died. She would be present, and brave, and strong.

Sansa resisted the urge to pinch her nose up at the smell of blood as she daintily stepped over the corpse blocking the doorway. Sandor was close behind her, a hand hovering over her back to hurry her forward. "You'll make me trip," she protested, but he maneuvered her easily through the carnage that he had created (gods, he was fierce-her eyes lingered on a man who was missing three-fourths of his head). "We have to find Petyr." Sansa considered all the places he would be, and knew there were a couple possibilities; she followed her gut, and started to run as quietly as she could towards the main hall.

"Sansa!" Arya warned, and just in time, she stopped and flattened herself against the wall as three of the knights of the Vale ran past, fresh blood on their swords. She wished ardently that she could hurt them, but she had no choice but to move on. Sandor was watching her with such intensity, she could feel his eyes following her every movement. Unwittingly, her mind flashed to their faux love-making. The way he looked at her was very akin to when she had walked in on his meeting with Jon-like he was aware, too aware for comfort. Had he felt her all those times, kneeling down in front of him as he undid his bootlaces, or reaching how to touch his back as he undressed? She shook her head under the hood of her warm cloak. Time for those thoughts later. There was a man trying to take what was hers, and she had to stop it.

They were seen before Sandor could pull Sansa back; two men shouted something, Sansa could barely hear what, but she knew they would kill Sandor and take her and Arya away as ransom. _No, that will never happen to us again_ , she knew in her mind as her shield pulled her behind him and drew his greatsword. It seemed like a spell that someone had cast. Her sister moved like she was made of water, like bone and ligament no longer existed or created any obstacle. The poor man opposite her was clumsy in comparison, and much too slow-Arya ducked under a swipe that went too high and was around and behind him before his sword arm even came down for another strike. Sansa was still quite new to this, so she watched with fascination and disgust as Arya's skinny blade effortlessly pierced the man's flesh and punctured his heart through his back. His knees buckled and Arya pulled her sword out by kicking him down. Dead, in less than a minute. It was dizzying. Sandor was slower, due to his leg and hefty weight, but he was close behind. His opponent was struggling to breath, and could no longer fully block Sandor's attacks-his sword hit the ground with a clang every time he brought it up to try to divert her shield's blows. Arya's face scrunched up in annoyance, and she was about to join when Sandor let out a shout and lobbed the man's head clean off before he could even beg for mercy. Sansa could see that the man's mouth was moving, still. Was he whispering some woman's name before his brain blinked out?

Blood was starting to soak into the hem of her cloak. She straightened her back and began to sprint. She was a wolf, faster and wiser than any of these men.

Petyr was exactly where she imagined he would be. Sitting with his knees crossed and his chin pointed slightly up, he was almost the spitting image of Joff. Gasping a little, she was going to storm up to the front of the room and confront him, but Sandor grabbed her elbow and tugged her back towards him. "This is a trap," he growled into her ear, closer than he normally might get, but it made her feel safe, now.

"It's always been a trap, at least in his eyes," she responded. "Let me try and reason with him."

"He'll take advantage of your want for peace," Sandor said. "Just let me kill him."

"I actually agree with the dog."

Sansa glared at Arya before shaking her head. "He's not yours to kill."

Sandor and Arya exchanged a confused look before Sansa broke free of her shield and made her way to stand in front of her father's seat. She was honestly surprised he was not sitting in Catelyn Tully's chair, but he was probably still hoping she would climb up and take her true place at his side. It made her stomach clench with anger that he would ever think this would be something she wanted. "I see your plans are going well," Sansa began. "Sweetrobin is dead, no doubt by your bidding. How much sweetmilk were you giving him?"

Petyr smiled his signature smile, curled on the edges like a cursive letter. "I only administered as much as the maester advised. You can hardly accuse me when the poor boy was sick his whole life. I was only trying to help him."

"Your interpretation of the idea of helping seems loose," she retorted, feeling strengthened by her two protectors at her back. "Is that what you think you're doing now as well? Helping?"

"I offered you many chances, sweetling. I wanted you at my side, not opposing me. I could have given you much more than this dusty, isolated place. But I've seen clearly what you desire," he looked from Sansa to Sandor,"and you'd rather rut with an animal than be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"You're the animal," the lady of Winterfell corrected. "Do you really think you can take the Dragon Queen down? I'm no military leader, but I know that the Vale is not enough, especially against three dragons. Or are you not as clever as you've led me to believe? Only good with whores and gold?"

"Oh, I'm quite clever, Sansa," Littlefinger sneered, leaning forward in his seat. "There are many who are unsettled by the return of the dragons, and would rather it be controlled, or destroyed. And there are many who hate Daenerys Stormborn, who want her dead. I am good with gold, and gold is a wonderful diplomat by itself. It does all the talking and compromising for me, most of the time. Volantis, Tyrosh, and Qohor have all expressed great concern over the stability of her rule."

"Cersei was better?"

"Cersei was easily replaceable."

"So, you're making a point here. Taking the North back before she can even get started. What are you going to do when my army returns?"

"There will be nothing to return to."

Suddenly, the room erupted with the sounds of fighting. The doors behind Sandor and Arya burst open and half a dozen knights surrounded them; Sandor cast a desperate glance at her but Sansa was already being dragged away from the hall by Petyr. The princess struggled, meeting his eyes from across the room before she was pulled around the corner. "Let go of me," Sansa snarled. "You slimey creature, you horrid man-" Littlefinger tugged particularly hard, popping her shoulder, and she cried out more in shock than in pain. He was leading her back to her quarters, almost exactly the way she had run to find him. She was married to a monster for a while, so she knew what was bouncing around in Petyr's mind right now. He was imagining this to be their wedding night.

He was not as careful as Sandor-there was blood coating the bottom of her boots that she was forced to trek over her floor. "I've already won, Sansa," he told her, calm as can be, as Sansa's eyes scanned the room fiercely for something to defend herself with. Her room was full of useless, pretty things, though. She was disappointed that some parts of her like that remained, but there was no time to feel real regret, because he was advancing on her. Not this time, she thought even as he backhanded her across her cheek, and she fell to the ground with the force of it (he was stronger than he looked, which disgusted her). "There's no use resisting it anymore," Petyr continued, letting Sansa rise to her hands and knees. He was probably enjoying the sight of her too much for her liking, so she tackled his knees before he could maintain his monologue. He was light, so he was on the floor with her too easily, and she climbed on top of him and gave him a good slap across his cheek in retaliation for earlier. He only smirked, which was much too akin to Ramsey, so she went to hit him again. "Your mother fought me, too," Littlefinger mocked, managing to grab her wrist in his hand. "But she let me between her legs, eventually. You'll stop resisting one day."

"Don't talk about my mother," Sansa hissed.

He had both her wrists locked now, and he sat up and pushed her back so hard her head cracked against the stone floor. Sansa moaned in pain, squeezing her eyes shut, only vaguely aware of Petyr fumbling with the skirt of her nightgown.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in her room anymore, but in the courtyard, her teeth buried in a knight's throat while her pack took down three more behind her. One howled in triumph, and she could hear it both as a wolf and as Sansa, and it made her so dizzy she did not resist at all when Littlefinger put his hands on her thighs and started to spread her knees apart. She didn't need to be on two legs to know her way around Winterfell; the blood dripping from her jowls left a spotted path behind her that the pack could follow, and she didn't have time to look after them.

"That's right," Petyr murmured, and she could barely hear him, could barely understand him. It didn't even sound like the Common Tongue anymore.

Another howl broke her of her reverie, and just as she felt the tip of him brush against her and her hands began to shove on him, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open in a silent scream. "What-" he began, but he disappeared. No, he was being dragged away by the biggest direwolf she had ever seen. She (Sansa knew it was a female, somehow) paused to dip her head towards Sansa in some sort of gesture, before pulling the shrieking man away from her. It was all very unnatural and sudden, so the princess sat there for a long while, listening to the sudden silence, where before there was shouting and barking. After a while, she snapped herself out of it and struggled to her feet, swaying a bit before she walked back out into the cold.

It was chaos. Bodies stained the snow while a couple wolves wrestled over a particularly torn up corpse. Once they heard the crunch of her feet, they ran through the open gate and back to the wolfswood. After a few minutes, Sansa could hear the collective howl of the pack, victorious and powerful.

She called them here, didn't she? But how?

It didn't matter, now. Now, she had to find Sandor and Arya, and any other survivors.

* * *

They could never find Petyr's body. Sansa assumed rightly that the pack had devoured him whole. Their cubs were probably using his bones as toys. The vision gave her great pleasure during the days when she was scrubbing blood from the floors and lighting candles for the murdered; Jon was so close, it was best to get the castle as normal as possible before he arrived with his new company.

Only a short while after, Sandor caught Sansa in the godswood, one of the few places that hadn't been touched during Littlefinger's brief attack. It was a bright day, and the sun was shining on the pool of water, making the shallows nearly pleasant to touch. She had her fingers in the water, creating ripples and breaking her reflection apart over and over. "Needed a moment away, too?" she asked, looking up at him with a smile.

The sight seemed to make him hesitate, but he leaned against a tree close to her, crossing his arms over his chest. "Never told me how you got away," Sandor muttered, probably not wanting to admit that he had been looking for her. She smiled again, enjoying him being embarrassed.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "All that matters is that Petyr is dead, and we're safe."

That night, she buried his skull deep in the forest, digging deep with her claws. His meat had nourished her and her pups, but something about his jaw and teeth unsettled her even as an animal. So she decided to let the insects and worms become acquainted with his smirk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh i'm sorry i'm trash and this pathetic short chapter took me so long

After another long snow, Jon came back to Winterfell with a second gigantic army, only instead of silver their banners were black and red. Sansa and Arya watched them approach from the walls; it almost made her jump with her sister suddenly grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. "The last time a king came through our gates, we all got separated," Arya said, her tone even and determined. "When we go North, we can look for Bran, and then we'll never split up our pack again."

"I pray that he still lives," the lady of Winterfell whispered in response.

"Praying won't help him." And she released Sansa's hand, keeping her gray gaze trained on the approaching horde. Sansa left her there to change for Jon's arrival--Arya had the privilege of her trousers, but Sansa was the lady of this hold, and with a queen came courtiers. It would be easier to avoid whispers. As Evette took away her cloak, she remembered how the southern women had snickered at her winter gowns and her braids. She had had Lady then, too. She longed for her companion. Her presence would have brought her great comfort.

"My lady..." Her maid's voice was small and inquisitive. "Are there really going to be dragons here?"

"It seems to be so," Sansa replied, unclipping the bodice of her current dress. "Are you excited? These are the first in hundreds of years. His Grace has written to me about them in great detail, and I am particularly looking forward to meeting the black one. He is akin to Balerion, for all his girth and power."

"Oh, I think I will hide in my room, if there are no tasks for me," Evette squeaked, surprisingly meek. "Begging your pardon, there are some wonders I'd rather not be witness to. Like something with giant teeth that can breathe fire to melt stone castles."

She wanted to smile at her anxiety, but it was too understandable to truly mock; only a fool would approach such a creature with anything less than fear. "I give you leave to hide, but not until we find a gown that will impress a Targaryen queen."

-

"Not exactly dressed for the weather, little bird."

Sansa only let out a sniffle in response, willing herself not to sneeze. Evette had squeezed her into a lovely, sea green dress but the thin skirts were making her legs quiver. There was no way to know what would happen, so Sansa had cleared the entire courtyard in case this queen liked dramatic entrances. No one had seen the dragons yet. Everyone's eyes kept sneaking glances up to the sky, hoping (dreading) to see one flying overhead.

She could tell Sandor was nervous. She could not fault him for it--dragons were fire made flesh, and fire was his greatest fear. Wanting to reach for his hand, but knowing he would withdraw it, she instead looked at the gate, willing Jon to appear so that she could return to her warm rooms.

"Remember your promise," Sansa whispered, without turning her head back towards him. "Tyrion will be there. He's no longer my husband, not really, but--"

"You explained yourself enough." Sandor scratched at his unburnt cheek. "Won't hear a word from me." He sounded so sullen, it made Sansa bite her bottom lip to keep from pouting. It was a childish habit. Ramsey had said he wanted to bloody her mouth every time she did it. Internally, she shook herself of such thoughts and turned them back to the man standing next to her now, who would kill anyone who ever dared to try and harm her. Arya had told her when he heard of her marriage to the youngest Lannister, he had drunk himself into a worse stupor than usual, and because of it, was sloppy. It was unlike him (the sloppiness, not the drunkenness). She hesitated with such a thought, but maybe Tyrion would be the one to help with his leg. It pained her to see him struggle at the end of the day, sometimes. A man like Sandor was used to hurting, but Sansa knew him enough to see the strain in his eyes.

Arya arrived, finally. She had not changed, but Sansa bit back her comment, recalling her vow to accept her sister rather than berate her. Instead, she smiled at the younger princess (oh, she was going to hate being addressed as such). "I watched them get close enough to see this Dragon Queen's fancy armor. I already know you're going to like her, Sansa," Arya grinned, with the happiness that had been easier when they were children. It made Sansa want to cry but a reaction like that would cause concern, so she simply reached out to straighten her sister's bangs. The skinny girl let out a huff but let her fuss over her for a moment. _Maybe she has changed_. Sansa wondered what different horrors Arya had had to face. All alone. Things were not exactly easy for Sansa, but she could always count on a warm bed and warmer food. They had yet to discuss it in length. Perhaps she was waiting until Jon was back in Winterfell, to spare repeating her story. Instead of impatient, she had become pragmatic.

"If she's wearing armor instead of a gown, then I think we'll both enjoy her company. Though I may be in the wrong outfit." A sharp wind brought a harsh chill, and it sent Sansa into shivers. "I think my maid was in such a hurry to find a place to hide, she simply grabbed the first thing that looked pretty and put it on me."

"You should really learn to dress yourself," Arya retorted. "It's a skill that's fairly useful."

As Alayne, she had laced herself up, but a bastard didn't have a personal maid. She kept such a comment to herself, though. It seemed petty in comparison to the hard edges around Arya's mouth.

Before Sansa could reply, another wind came, only it was not a gale of ice, but fire. She smelled it before she saw it--a great, black shadow, with wings like a bat, and the scent of warmth and scales, almost clinical. It was too high up to really catch details, but even from such a distance its size took her breath away. For a second, it was all she could do not to gape openly at the sight. Arya had no reservations, and was doing as such, though she gave off an impression of excitement rather than anxiety. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Sandor's hand twitch towards the pommel of his sword, but the sudden opening of the gate drew all their attention. Jon led the procession, and at the sight of her brother her heart soared with gladness. He looked exhausted but whole and flushed from the cold. It struck Sansa how similar this all was--a reunion, long-awaited and dreamed of, observed by many who knew little. He strode towards them, only keeping his eyes on Sansa, barely noting the new figure to her left. It was not until he took his place next to the lady of the castle, when they all knelt to greet their new queen, that his eyes glanced over and lingered on Arya's face. Sansa could understand it a little. Their younger sister had always been lithe, but the years had made her cheeks and chin sharp, and there was the fact that she had grown a good amount. His eyes widened, though, and it seemed he could barely breathe. "Arya--" he choked out, but Daenerys Targaryen rode into the yard on her white horse; he had no choice but to bow his head, but he reached out from under his heavy cloak to grasp at her hand. Her sister accepted it without a single second of hesitation, and she felt a small amount of jealousy rise up in her throat like bile.

Arya was right. The queen was a sight to behold, in her black leathers and knee-high riding boots. A blend of masculine and feminine attire, both soft and practical. What awed Sansa most was her hair, though. She had never seen a Targaryen in the flesh, only in books and paintings, but it could not prepare her for the brightness of her person. Her hair switched from silver, to gold, to white, all depending on the light, and fell over her shoulders and breasts in waves tousled by the northern breezes. Her eyes, though, remained a lilac-purple, wide and steady. _That is what a queen should look like,_ Sansa thought, remembering how similar she felt as a child, watching Cersei descend like a goddess into their common abode. The tilt of Daenerys' chin was not from arrogance, but resilience.

The Dragon Queen slid off of her horse gracefully, and the rest of the company followed Jon's lead and bent the knee. It struck Sansa how different this woman was from Robert, Cersei, Joffery, all the people before that had ruled carelessly. Daenerys observed Winterfell for a second before approached Jon and speaking, in a voice almost too girlish, "You know such formalities are tiresome from you. Rise, Jon Snow. Introduce me to your family." It took a strange person to blend a commanding and playful tone. Jon did as the queen bade him, and Sansa gratefully took her knees out of the snow. _My skirts will be soaked._

"Your Grace," Jon began, his voice cracking a bit like a boy. Sansa noticed he had let go of Arya's hand. "It's my honor to present my sisters, Lady Sansa and Arya Stark." At her name, she did a small curtsy, while Arya clumsily attempted to copy her, though she was wearing trousers. The queen's eyes wrinkled a bit as she smiled at the two of them--with little pause, she stepped forward to take Sansa's hands in hers and said, "Your brother has spoken of you in such detail, but he is hopeless with his words. You burn so brightly, it is a wonder winter has even touched this place."

Sansa blushed a little to receive such a compliment, and she heard the snow crunch behind her as Sandor shifted on his feet. "Y-your Grace, I cannot possibly take such a comment seriously when it is coming from the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Ah, I have heard that a few times," Daenerys sighed, "and it is not true. Women are simply beautiful in different ways. Like this little wolf." That was directed at Arya. Sansa was a trifle shocked to see her sister's cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. "Our families have hurt each other enough in the past. The present and future will better, and we will all work together to ensure that good work is done." The queen nodded at the both of them, and Sandor as well, though she did not inquire about him. Sansa guessed that Jon had explained Sandor's connection to The Mountain, and maybe the khaleesi was not ready to address it properly. Such a thing could not be faulted. Her niece and nephew had been butchered like lambs.

The rest of the party arrived, or perhaps they had held back to allow Sansa a chance to prepare. Even if she never loved him, it was a strange sensation to watch her estranged husband ride through her gates and dismount as clumsily as always. Behind Tyrion Lannister was a host of unfamiliar faces, but as lady of the hold she acknowledged them all. _Poor things_ , Sansa thought. _You can tell they've never seen the snow before_. Behind her, she heard Sandor inhale sharply, as if to curb some knee-jerk insult, and she wished again she could reach for his hand.

"This is no place to make introductions," Jon said. "Come inside, where the fires will warm your bones."

-

There was time later for battle plans and strategies--now, the hall was filled to bursting with men and women, warm with drink and food. Sansa had given up her seat for Daenerys, and slipped away after an hour or so, noting how closely Jon had moved his chair to be beside hers. _Let them be happy_ , Sansa prayed briefly. _Dear Mother, let her be gentle to him_. Now that she had walked far enough away that she could no longer hear anyone, she was not sure where to go. The winds were howling outside, and she felt pity for the pack in the woods. She whispered another prayer of mercy for her protectors.

She found her feet leading her back towards her chambers, but before she opened the door to her room she paused and thought of her shield, who had disappeared as soon as the feast had begun. If she dreamed, she could find him, but she was too restless in her bones to lie down now. So Sansa spun around and made her way through the silent halls until she was in front of his door. He was inside; candlelight framed the door, and she heard the swish of half-empty bottle as it was moved around. She knocked before she lost her nerve, and waited a moment. It seemed he would not answer, and she was about to retreat when he pulled open the door. The scarred half of his face was shrouded, and he looked almost like a normal man. She just wanted to brush the hair away from his eyes and see all of him. "Sandor--" she began, but he cut her off.

"What're you doing here?" he growled. "Aren't you supposed to be playing lady?"

"I _am_ a lady," Sansa reminded him. "And I didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to see you." She wasn't normally this bold, and there wasn't even any wine swimming in her blood. He was drowning in it, it seemed. _Tyrion_. But she hadn't even uttered a word to the dwarf besides a "my lord" when he presented himself.

"Your family is there. Don't you want to be with them?" Sandor muttered, looking like he wanted to shut the door in her face. Sansa wrinkled her brow and forced her way inside before he could do such a thing--he looked at her in shock as she squeezed herself between him and the door-frame. For once, she was not dreaming. This was his room, his private area. She knew it as well as her own by now, down to the crack in the far left tile. Sandor closed the door but kept his hand on the knob, as if needing something to brace himself with. "You shouldn't be here, little bird." It came out a very weak protest.

"My home is full of strangers," Sansa whispered. "Right now, I have no other desire but to be with someone familiar." She thought about sitting on his bed, but it didn't feel right, so she remained standing, hands fidgeting at her waist. How much like a child she seemed, as if she was still in a half-ripped silk dress with bruises on her shoulders and ribs. For a moment she felt regret, but it vanished when she heard Sandor's footsteps approach. _He is only a few inches away. Turn around_. In her dreams she had been so confident, but the fear of him shoving her away was paralyzing. "I..." _I love you. I love you. Kiss me_. "...am afraid."

"Of what?" Sandor's voice came out too soft for her to understand. It was like a different man was speaking to her; another language, another tone, inflections that were foreign.

_My family will never be the same, Jon is king, Bran is still missing, Arya is almost a ghost, everyone I know and love may be dead soon, I cannot fight to protect, I am so helpless._

"Everything." The word was insufficient, but nothing else fit the swirling feeling in her gut. Sansa could almost hear the hesitation in his legs when he came closer, and successfully fought back an involuntary flinch when his fingers touched her elbow. _You could have easily killed all of the men who hurt me, yet you would never_. What a cruel fate to be given, to look a monster but not be one.

"Jon will leave again. And he'll take every person able to swing a sword. I fear even Arya will insist on going. But you will leave me, too. We-we finally meet after all these years, and now you are heading to a place I cannot follow. What can I do here? If Jon and the Queen fail, I will simply be waiting impatiently for death."

"'There must always be a Stark in Winterfell'. That's what your bloody brother would say right now." It did not come out unkindly. "You'd just be a liability, little bird. This is your place. The sick and old and young will need someone to keep their eyes in front of them."

"I know." She felt the animal in her heart stir. "I cannot shake this feeling that I must fight, though."

"Can't blame you. After what you've gone through, I'd want revenge. In some way. Battle by battle."

"Is that what you did?"

"It was all I could do."

Some men turn to drink or whores or opiates or gambling, but this man had used death to keep him from death.

Sansa uncrossed her arms and turned to face him--he was close enough that her skirts brushed past his shins. "You must promise me that you will return." _To me, to your home._

"Promises are lies, little bird. I'm no liar."

Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the distance to his body and embraced him. He tensed up like it gave him pain, and gripped her forearms like he was going to shove her again. "Sandor, please." It was enough that his fingers relaxed and he allowed her to bury her face in his chest. Wine, musk, steel, sweat, leather, it all mixed together like a potion in her senses. Sansa wanted to taste him, so she laid the gentlest of kisses on his neck, standing on her toes to do so.

"Little bird." It was like a warning, but she didn't want to heed it. She tilted her head back to gaze up at him, trying to convey her desires without speaking them. Sandor looked back with wide eyes--if it were a different situation, it would have been comical how scared he looked. But instead of laughing, she reached up and touched the burnt side of his face, touching her thumb to the corner of his mouth. "Is this another dream?" he muttered.

"No." Sansa pulled him down to press her mouth to his, softly and close-lipped. "It never was a dream."

"You...you can't really want this."

"I do."

"Sansa." It made her shiver to hear her name so close to her lips. For the first time since Joff kissed her (before he cut off her father's head), her knees were trembling and her stomach was tight. It was, all at once, exciting and terrifying and beautiful to want someone so much.

Like she was made of glass, Sandor threaded his fingers in her loosened hair and leaned down to return her kiss, but over and over, small and short and sweet. He had yet to even truly touch her and her heart was already racing in her chest, fast enough that she was sure he could hear it. Once he was sure she wasn't going to shove him away, his ministrations doubled in intensity; before she could even gasp she was sitting on the edge of his bed with him kneeling between her thighs, both hands gripping her narrow waist and his teeth pulling at her bottom lip. Sansa shrugged her cloak off while he busied himself with unlacing her bodice. It was fast, maybe too fast, but she was finding it hard to truly complain when he pushed her on her back and ran his tongue over one of her nipples. Her skirts were up around her hips while his fingers pulled at her smallclothes.

Suddenly, he was gone. Sansa was about to let out a protest, when she felt his breath in between her legs, warm and damp. "Sandor--" she started, but his tongue interrupted her train of thought. "Oh, gods," she whimpered. The motion of his mouth was making her dizzy, all she could do was rotate her hips and try to keep up. He grabbed at her breasts, pinching them. Her whole lower body clenched and then unclenched, making her let out a cry. Sansa had no idea what he was doing, but it was making her vision blurry and her toes curl up. Sandor continued a relentless pace until she had no choice but to stuff her mouth with the sheet on the bed, afraid her scream would be heard by someone nearby. All she could do, for a brief moment, was inhale and exhale like she had just run for her life. His weight was above her, she could feel it, and he kissed her collarbone gently.

"Little bird," he murmured against her chest. "You should fly back to your little cage. Won't do to be caught in here with me, come the morrow."

"I don't care." She knew he was right, but all she wanted was more, more, more of him.

"If you aren't in your own bed, there'll be trouble. I think your sister will try to kill me again." Sansa let out a soft laugh, allowing Sandor to pull her up into a sitting position. She watched him retie her dress like she was a tiny doll, and it warmed her, making her feel protected. _You can cut a man in half with one swing, but you can't tie a pretty bow_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya it's a really short chapter but I've been super sad ok

The lady of Winterfell spent the next morning in a pleasant daze. Evette had had to repeat herself on more than a few occasions throughout the process of bathing and dressing her mistress; Sansa, even in her stupor, did not miss the odd looks she was receiving from her maid. The jumping sensation in her stomach, however, rendered her to care little, and she replayed last night several times in her mind. Sandor had been vastly different from her prior experiences. She could not believe he did not take her when he could--she would not have objected, certainly. No one had ever even breathed a word that such an act was performed in the bedchamber, but Catelyn had never gotten the chance to educate her daughter on such matters. _Did Father...?_ She recalled how happy her mother would be sometimes, when she emerged from her chamber with her husband. As a child, she had assumed it was love (which it was, obviously), but now she wondered...  
  
Evette left in a hurry, which Sansa was grateful for. It gave her a moment to stand by the window and cool down her flushed cheeks. It had taken all her strength to not sneak into his bed that night, but she felt that such a thing would have only succeeded in pushing him away. She longed to see him, to smell him, but she was the lady of this hold. Even with the king back, she still had many duties, which included meeting with Daenerys herself. The mere thought made her nervous, but she let the icy wind from outside brush it away from her. There was too much to do, and not enough time to dwell on pleasurable things.  
  
The Dragon Queen was waiting for Sansa on the battlements, looking out of place in her thick cloak and furs. Two shivering Dothraki stood at her side, and they eyed Sansa as she approached. What a sight she must be, after years of wandering fields and valleys. Ignoring the horror stories that rambled in her head from Old Nan, she gracefully bent into a curtsy, taking care to not let her skirts drag in the snow. Daenerys smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes but was, regardless, kind. "Do you know," she began, "that this is the first time in years that I've seen snow? Or even felt cold, for that matter."  
  
"It complements you, Your Grace." And it did. It seemed impossible for the young queen to ever look homely--the white of her hair shone brilliantly in the crisp, early morning, and there was a flush to her usually pale cheeks.  
  
"I think we both know I am much suited to the warmer winds of the South." Still, there was admiration in Daenerys' eyes when she turned her gaze from Sansa to the vast plains and forests of the Northern Kingdom. "Walk with me. I fear my guards may lose their toes if we remain still for much longer."  
  
She obeyed, politely ignoring how poorly the Dothraki were concealing their shivering knees. It all struck her as a little familiar; the Targaryen queen clasped her hands together at her waist, like any proper lady, but she lacked the stiffness that had been so exhausting. It made her think of Margaery, for the first time in months, and it brought a swift sadness to her heart. She wished she was alive now, but Cersei had seen to that. "Your brother told me how you fended off an attack while he was trying to woo my dragons," Daenerys said, slowing her step a little so that Sansa could walk by her side. It was habitual of her to maintain some distance, from Joff to Cersei to Ramsey (even Jon, sometimes). "He could not have left Winterfell in better hands, it seems."  
  
"I did no fighting, Your Grace," Sansa murmured, while her molars ground together in her head, remembering how Petyr had screeched. "The true protectors of Winterfell are the men who died, and the ones still living."  
  
"It certainly helps to have exceptional warriors loyal to you." The young queen tilted her head a little and--was it her imagination?--one corner of her mouth curved upwards. "Speaking of which, where is your large shadow?"  
  
Sansa kept her composure, though her heart leaped at the mention of her lover. "He is training the young boys of Winter Town this morning."  
  
"Even across the sea, we heard tales of The Hound. The rumors always painted him a worse monster than his brother, and having met the man, I have to say I'm quite disappointed." Her words were not harsh, in fact her ghost of a smile widened to a full smirk. "He appears to me to be a gentle giant."  
  
It put Sansa at ease, to know that Daenerys did not harbor ill will. "He has endured much."  
  
"We all have. It seems to me that we have all decided to be better than our situations allowed for."  
  
The queen cast a glance at her obviously suffering guards, and gave a soft chuckle only Sansa could pick up. She spoke to them both in Dothraki, and while it was unintelligible to Sansa, it was clear they were given permission to leave; the two men almost ran away in their search of warmth. "Jon has told me Tyrion is your husband?" Daenerys continued bluntly, making Sansa almost blanch with shock.  
  
"We never...never consummated the marriage, Your Grace." She shoved away the memory of him climbing into bed naked and reaching for her, and replaced it with the much more pleasing reality of her Hound. "It seems I cannot keep a husband." An attempt at a joke. The queen had the good grace to laugh, but Sansa grimaced internally.  
  
"It is just as well, for he is far too old." She tilted her head and her expression became serious. "When the time comes for battle, he will remain here in Winterfell for a short while, as your guest. I need to know if there are any problems, because if it puts you at ease, I could make other arrangements--"  
  
"Your Grace, please, there is no ill will between me and Lord Tyrion, but...why would you not bring him with you? Won't you need him as counsel?"  
  
Daenerys sighed and looked away from Sansa, out over the woods and into the brilliantly white distance. For a moment, she said nothing, but the dragon queen murmured, "I do not have an heir. Nor am I likely to ever have one. I had thought to give the decision more thought, but given the imminent danger..." She inhaled deeply, as if trying to bring the cold inside her. "I am still not entirely sure if I believe Jon Snow, but I know he is not a fool or a madman. If I die beyond the Wall, my Hand shall rule. Right now, at this moment, I can think of no one else who would not let Westeros descend into chaos." Her grim expression lightened a bit, and she smirked at Sansa. "I have my dragons, but our lord is not much a warrior."  
  
"Should he not be in King's Landing, then?"  
  
"There are well trusted people maintaining peace currently, and I believe his words were, "I want to see Winterfell the way I saw it all those years ago, with Ned Stark's children alive and protecting it.""  
  
Sansa was well adjusted to being in Winterfell at that point, but still, hearing her father's name and knowing that his ancestral home was not despoiled by men who disparaged his name brought her a sweet satisfaction.  
  
"Now, lady of the North, lead me to the nearest fire. I tried to remain strong, but I fear my toes have become numb."  
  
-  
  
A fortnight had passed, and Sansa had seen little of her shield. He spent most of his days in Winter Town, training and teaching every boy strong enough to pick up a sword. Sansa had her own duties as well, overseeing the building and completion of shelter for the freefolk; listening to common men and women in the hall, with Jon absent at war councils. The quick, ardent glances between them were beginning to drive Sansa mad, and her dreams aided her none in that regard. She was in the midst of one now, one that she was sure Sandor was feeling, too. He had her pinned, and for a split second she thought of Ramsey-- _no time for that_ , a part of her whispered, as Sandor's hand gripped her hips so hard she knew the marks would remain for days. It was nothing like her dead husband. Her body felt too alive to be broken.  
  
She woke before the winding, twisting sensation in her gut could snap; she stared up at the ceiling for some time, reveling in the heavy feeling between her legs. _Come to me_ , she begged in her mind, the dream still lingering at the corners of her mouth. _I need you.  
_  
It was only a short while before there came a sharp knock on Sansa's door--she was up and unlocking it in a matter of seconds, not bothering to worry over her hair or nightgown. "Little bird," Sandor growled as soon as he appeared before her, but she grabbed his tunic and tried (vainly) to pull him inside. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"  
  
She was unsure if he meant sex or the dreams, but she deigned not to answer, only to kiss him. He scooped her up and her legs went around his waist. It made her delightfully dizzy, and it was all she could do just to hold onto him as he closed the door behind him and strode across her room. "You don't have a fucking clue, do you?" Sandor murmured against her mouth. "This isn't a game, Sansa. If you aren't ready--"  
  
"I am not a child anymore," she insisted. "I am ready. I have been waiting for you. Someone got in the way, and now he is not even allowed to be food for worms."  
  
He closed her eyes at his words, and opened them a moment later, taking stock of her. Sansa knew no one would ever match the way he looked at her, the strangest combination of safety, excitement, love, comfort. He lowered her down onto her bed, getting to know her neck and shoulders with his lips while his hands busied themselves with the ribbons on her nightgown. "Always these bloody ribbons," he growled. "I'm of a mind to just rip this damn thing off you." He didn't, though. Instead, he pulled the garment down her body and watched every inch of skin as it as revealed to him, like she was a precious thing.  
  
"What you did to me, that night in your room..." Sansa whispered, watching him run his hands over her bare thighs. "No one has ever done that to me before. I've never even heard of it."  
  
"Aye, and that doesn't surprise me. You've read stories filled with gifts of flowers and chaste kisses, how could you possibly know--" His fingertips were gingerly tracing the folds of flesh between her legs now, and Sansa let out a barely audible gasp. "--any of the ways a man can please a woman?"  
  
"I am not a virgin," she replied, feeling a little embarrassed by his teasing tone.  
  
"That doesn't mean a damn thing, little bird." His hand remained, but he moved himself up so that they were now face to face. Sansa could barely make out the outline of his face in the dark, but her Hound was kissing her before she could attempt to search for him. Sandor's fingers slowly edged around her entrance--her knees started to come together before she could stop the impulse, and he ceased all movement. "Do you--"  
  
"Don't stop," she interrupted. "Please."  
  
"Sansa..."  
  
"I am not afraid of you."  
  
His expression seemed pained, but he obeyed. Easily, gently, he put his fingers inside of her, all the while pressing his mouth into her throat. "Ahh..." Sansa fought back her flinch, wanting more than anything to give herself up without childish hesitation. But she had not touched herself since Ramsey, and it felt odd, a little painful. He wiggled his digits a bit; Sansa moaned, surprising herself and Sandor with the sound. _Why did that feel so good?_ She could feel her cheeks blushing. "S-Sandor," she stammered, grabbing his forearm when he experimentally moved again. "This feels different from before..."  
  
"Good," he muttered.  
  
Sansa could not give a name to the things that her lover did, but when he left later, just as dawn was creeping through the windows, she could name the loud, beautiful mess in her gut.  
  
_Happy._


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa was a wolf once more, with her pack hot on her heels, turning up the soil with their claws at their intense pace. There was a scent, unfamiliar to her-it was not the warm smell of the two-legs who lived in the stones, or of any animal whose blood she had tasted. She could only think of finding its source, and ripping whatever it was to shreds. Her sisters (her mothers? Her pups?) did not have mouths capable of eating away disaster.

Even through her fur, she could feel the cold, a cold that set the canals of her nose aflame and brought tears to her eyes. Sansa dug down with her paws to force a quick halt, and her faithful pack followed suit, crowding around her and sniffing the air and dirt with furious intent. As much as it felt like ice was forming in her chest with every inhale, she kept her nose up and her eyes open. It was close. Instinct kicked in, and her lips drew back in a terrible snarl. Now she could see it, two points of bright blue a few yards in front of her. For a moment, she could not comprehend, until they blinked at her. Eyes. Sansa barked sharply, her saliva dripping down and hitting the ground with soft _clinks_ , frozen solid.

It emerged at a steady pace from the trees. While it stood on its hind legs like her strange family, it bore little resemblance elsewhere. Despite its lack of hair, it wore barely anything, and the skin exposed was whiter than the snow. Every cell in her body was telling her this thing came to hurt them, so without another second wasted on observation Sansa charged, leaping at the creature with her jaws wide for its throat. She got an arm instead, and the flesh under her teeth was not soft-pain shot up her teeth but she held on, shaking her head madly to try and rip the limp off. Her pack surrounded them and pulled it down by its legs, showing her same resilience; the thing did not bleed, though, nor did it cry out. After showing little resistance, it threw Sansa off of it with such force that, when her body hit the tree, all the snow fell from its branches and almost buried her.

It was hard to breathe and even harder to see, but she could still smell blood, and hear the frightened yelps of her companions. _Stay still_ , Sansa whispered to her wolf's body. _Stay hidden_. The sound of scattered pawsteps through snow, and then nothing. It seemed like it was taking every drop of power that Sansa had to force her limbs to stop twitching and her breathing to slow. The corners of her vision were going black, but she knew if she closed her eyes she could faint and freeze to death under the snow.

Sansa was close to giving up when something began to dig through to her. She was too weak to fight but still managed to open her eyes to see the creature that would kill her.

Instead, it was a warm-blooded face, with pink in its cheeks and dark eyes, like those cubs that used to play with sticks and stones. It cleared her body off and leaned back on its haunches, to give her room to struggle to her paws. Sansa shook the wetness from her, despite the pain that caused, and gave her savior another curious look. She knew this face, did she not? From a dream, or a memory? She could sense that this skinny youngling meant her no harm, however.

"Hello, Sansa," it spoke, and Sansa felt sharp shock at the sound of her name. How could it know her, who flited so often between shadow and light that she could no longer say which she belonged to? _This voice_... She could remember hearing it before, on the shell of her ear, like the urgent calling of a babe. _This...scent_... "You don't have much time. You have to wake up now." That frustratingly familiar mouth smiled at her. "I'll see you soon, sister. Tell Jon I'm sorry I saw the Wall without him. I know he promised."

If she could speak, she would scream it, but she could only keen and wail as a wolf.

 _Bran_.

Sansa awoke in a flurry, shoving her furs to the ground and sprinting out into the pitch black night without even a robe and slippers. The animal was still inside her-she wasn't aware of the snow under her feet or the tears streaming down her cheeks, only her destination. "Jon!" she cried outside his door, pounding her fists desperately in the hopes of waking him. "Please! Please let me in!"

It took only a few seconds for her half-brother to appear before her, looking disheveled but very much awake. "Sansa," Jon said with alarm in his voice and on his face, noticing her dramatic appearance. "What has happened?" He took her by her arms and pulled her inside gently, maneuvering her to sit by a dying fire in his hearth. While he poured her a glass of wine to calm her shaking hands, there came a hesitant voice from further back in his chambers.

"Jon? Whatever is the matter?"

Despite her frazzled nerves, Sansa still jumped to her feet at the sight of Daenerys emerging with a silver robe tied loosely around her waist. "Your Grace, I-" Sansa looked to Jon with wide eyes, her tongue suddenly too swollen for her to speak. Her young king let out a small, quiet sigh, gave Sansa her wine, and moved to take the dragon queen's elbow in his hand.

"My sister needs to speak to me. I'll be back in bed shortly. Please, don't worry yourself," Jon whispered, beginning to lead Daenerys back to where she had came from.

"No!" Sansa objected, taking a step towards them as if she meant to follow. They looked at her with surprise. "No... Her Grace needs to hear this as well as you. It is of the upmost importance."

The lovers exchanged a glance. "Let me fetch you something to warm you up, Lady Sansa," Daenerys offered, slipping away from Jon, who watched her go with an expression akin to embarrassment. When he sat down next to his sister, she took his hand and gripped it, wanting to comfort him and needing it herself. "Here." The queen gingerly handed Sansa a lovely purple cloak.

She wrapped it around her shoulders and gratefully sunk into its fur-lined warmth. "Thank you," she said. The wolf was starting to retreat-her knees stopped trembling, her expression calmed into something less frantic. Sansa heard the soft clip of Ghost's claws on the stone before she saw him, and reached down without looking to stoke his fur. Considering the queerness of her dreams, she did not doubt that the direwolf was sensing the beast in her chest. _I am as much a sister to Ghost as to Jon_ , Sansa thought, and that idea sent her into shivers again. "Your Grace, I pray that you do not think me a mad woman after I am done speaking," the princess whispered, neglecting, for once, to meet her eyes. "I know that it sounds mad-it is mad. For the past few years, my dreams have been...prophetic. I dreamed I would stand inside Winterfell again, and that a great enemy would fall and die. I dreamed that Sandor Clegane would return, the night before he appeared in my hall. And..." Sansa tucked her ankles together and curled her toes tight under her skirt. "It is not just that I am seeing. I am present, there witnessing it at the same time that it is happening, like my soul has left my body behind. But sometimes-sometimes I am not myself. I am not anyone at all. I am a wolf, digging through dirt and killing rabbits and deer. I will taste blood in my mouth all the next day."

"Sansa-" Jon started, sounding incredibly concerned, but his sister held up her hand. Ghost looked over at him as well, as if to say _Listen_.

"I have never told you before because I know exactly what you are thinking, Jon. I would not have told you now, had I not seen what I have seen."

"You aren't mad at all, my lady." It was Daenerys, and Sansa finally looked at her with eyes wide with surprise. "I've received visions of the future in my dreams all my life. It was how my children were born. You are not the only one with such a gift, and would you say that I'm not sound of mind?"

"No, Your Grace," Sansa replied quickly.

"Tell us, then, what you saw that frightened you so much."

Hesitantly, she recounted her encounter with the white creature in the woods, describing it in detail. "Everything about it was...cold. Like its body was made of ice." Sansa remembered how it had felt when she had bitten into its arm, and resisted the urge to start quivering again.

"White walkers," Jon growled, standing. "That can only mean one of the Night's Watch's castles has fallen. Dammit!" Her brother started to pace, and Ghost watched him with growing interest. Sansa kept her hand on the direwolf's back, taking great comfort from his closeness. "I thought there would be more time. Why have I not received any news from the Wall?"

There was a brief silence, heavy with unsaid knowledge, before Daenerys spoke again. "You must ride out now and find this monster. If it is scouting, then we cannot allow it to survive."

"I know," Jon growled, already eyeing the door as if expecting an attack at that instant. "Both of you are to remain." His voice was firm, and directed mostly at the southern queen-Sansa could see her lips thin at her brother's tone but she did not retort. "Your dragons would just burn down the whole wood. Sansa, can you tell me anything more? Which direction should we go?"

"Depart from the eastern gate," she replied, her mind's eye following the trail her and the wolves had left behind. "Continue deep into the woods, towards Long Lake."

Her brother had already left the two of them alone before Sansa realized she had not uttered a word about Bran.

* * *

"Must you go?"

"The smaller the force, the better, little bird. Your king brother can't afford to lose men and we both know I'm worth ten by myself."

"I know it's silly to worry for you-"

"Seven hells, girl. You're bloody right, no need to scrunch up that pretty nose. I'll admit, though, I like you fluttering over me..."

"Don't tease me, Sandor."

"I thought you enjoyed it when I tease you."

"That-that's entirely different. Stop trying to distract me!"

"I'm not trying. It's so fucking easy to get your face blushing pink. Still such a proper lady."

" _Stop_. Look at me. You are coming home, unharmed and safe, or I'll be very cross with you."

"I wouldn't dream of riling you up, little wolf."

* * *

"I can tell how much you hate watching them go," Daenerys said quietly next to her, as they both stood vigil for the men they loved. "I feel it, too."

"It is not fair," replied Sansa, forcing her back to remain straight and her eyes dry. Sandor would not like to see her weep like a girl over him. "We have this fire in us, just as much as they do. Why are we not allowed to let it burn?"

"Maybe it would consume us," her friend said, her gaze becoming far off and strange. "Neither of us have clean hands, my lady. Are you untouched by everything that you had to do?"

"No," Sansa admitted simply.

"Even if they deserved death, it is still no trifling matter. So many men tried to murder me, and they ended up in the dirt-I can still see some of their eyes, though. Always so imploring, as if begging my 'womanly' nature to spare them. It infuriates me and saddens me. I do not want to live in a world where I have to abandon compassion in order to survive."

* * *

It seemed like days to Sansa, but the small party returned before the sun had fully set. She was sewing in her solar, concentrating on making her stitches as clean and tiny as possible, when Arya burst through her door to give her the news. Her sister had a wilder look than normal, like she had barely any time to dress herself and run out the door. She was panting, and Sansa had no doubts that she actually had run across the whole keep. "They've returned?" Sansa implored, though she knew there would be no other reason for Arya to seek her out. "Jon is all right? Sandor?"

"Come and see for yourself." The younger princess' voice was full of glee; Sansa almost threw her half-finished tunic to the side at the implication of good news. She gathered her skirts in her hands and chased after Arya as quickly as she could, feeling like a little girl for a second.

 _Bran. Bran. Bran. Bran_. She knew that it was him, she could almost smell him. Tears were already making her cheeks uncomfortably cold before she even saw him, wrapped up in furs and looking like a young man instead of a young boy. It was one thing to see him through the eyes of a wolf. So many details had been overlooked in her animal state-his hair was long and matted, the ghost of a beard was on his long jaw, the leathers that he wore looked old and were ripped at the shoulders and elbows. He had spent all the years he was supposed to be learning and playing on the run, and there was no trace of the inquisitive, moody child that was Brandon Stark. He held his mouth firm and tight, and his eyes were much more like a bird's than a wolf's.

Her heartbreak over his lost childhood could wait. She lowered herself to her knees in front of him, ignoring the dirt and snow that would ruin her dress, and took both his hands in hers. "Hello, Sansa," Bran greeted. "I told you I would see you soon."

"How did you know it was me?" Sansa whispered, trying to rub the cold from her little brother's fingers in vain.

"Your eyes," he answered. "It was a pair of human eyes looking back at me, not a direwolf's."

"We found him holed up in a cave just a few paces away from the lake." Sandor's voice behind her, and Sansa's body warmed at his proximity. "Your brother's wolf sniffed him out. And her, as well."

Sansa blinked to notice a girl standing behind Bran, covered head to toe in fur and looking like a skeleton. There was a bow and quiver on her back, and a dagger strapped to her waist. "You kept him safe, didn't you?" Sansa asked, giving her the kindest smile she was sure the girl had seen in a long while. "You have my sincerest thanks."

The girl did not respond immediately, then gave a short curtsy even though she had no skirts on. She heard Arya let out an appreciative snort behind her. "Can you please show her inside and get her warmed up?" Sansa cast a glance at her sister, who eagerly obeyed, no doubt jumping to ask the girl what combat experience she had. The girl glanced at Bran with obvious hesitation. "We are his family," Sansa assured her. "I have no weapon but I would kill anyone who dared try to hurt him. You have no cause for fear. Please, go and rest."

"Don't worry, Meera," Bran said. "We're safe here."

The girl named Meera finally relented and followed Arya away and inside. They all watched her go before Bran explained, "Meera Reed. She's protected me from everything, to wild animals to wights. If she's skittish, it's only because she's been in the wilds for some time."

"She's allowed to act however she likes, as far as I care." Jon finally spoke up, dismounting from his horse and looking at Bran like he could not believe he was real. "She brought you home."

"The last time I saw Winterfell, it was rubble." Bran took a moment to observe the courtyard. "Theon destroyed it. But he's still alive, isn't he? A half-man, but alive."

"The people who hurt us and tore down our home are dead now," Sansa said with pride. "No one is ever tearing us apart again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an: theon's not dead btw just a general statement


	7. Chapter 7

The appearance of the white walker changed everything. There were still not enough weapons made from dragonglass ready, but Jon Snow had little choice but to prepare his army to march North. She had thought, like her king, that there would have been more time-time to spend with her family. And...

Sandor.

She watched him eat at his place below her, watched the precision of his movements that came from years of training and killing. _Those hands have murdered women and children_ , she thought, but it did not turn her stomach. She had seen real monsters, and she knew they hid behind smiles, lies, and pomades. Her Hound was no mad dog. What else does an injured beast do, but bite at the hands that try to heal it?

No, she was more fixated on what else he knew his hands were capable of. As if he heard her thoughts, he looked up at her with heavy eyes, and Sansa knew her cheeks were turning pink. What strange power he had over her, making her body tingle without even being near her. She bit her lip and cast her gaze down at her untouched food, knowing she could not eat a bite with her stomach in its current state. "Excuse me," she said, standing as gracefully as she could. "Your Graces. I fear I'm not feeling well."

Most everyone paid her little mind, except for Sandor. She knew he was observing her as she pushed in her chair and left the hall. She knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he would be following her. She made her way to the godswood, far away from the noise and heat. The winter chill felt like a salve on her flushed face, and she settled down at the base of the weirwood, her thick skirts protecting her from the hard earth. "I always know I'll find you here, little bird." There he was, and she took in the sight of him, healthy and dark-haired. His body was long and wide, and she knew where every scar was under his leathers; no one could ever match him, not skinny Joff or bloated Ramsey.

"Kiss me," Sansa ordered, wanting to touch him. Without anymore hesitation, he crossed the distance to her and knelt, taking her chin softly in his fingers and brushing his lips against hers. It set her body on fire, and she leaned towards him when he pulled away. "Are you disobeying your lady?" she whispered, gripping the fabric of his tunic that peeked from his collar. It was useless to try and pull him back in, so she opted instead to slide into his lap, straddling his hips with her thighs.  
Sandor let out a groan as an answer. His hands wandered down to grab the flesh of her bottom, and she ground herself down into his warmth, loving the feeling of his hardness between her legs. Sansa kissed him hard, biting at his bottom lip (careful to avoid the scarred side). "Take me," she pleaded quietly. "I want you more than anything. Please-"

"Don't talk like that," Sandor hissed. "You'll fucking kill me."

"I know you want me, too." Sansa swirled her hips, making him groan again.

"The lady of Winterfell wants me to fuck her in the dirt like a dog?"

She ignored his mocking tone. "I would let you have me anywhere, Sandor."

Sansa felt his whole body shudder underneath her. "I'm still convinced this is a dream. You should be in a handsome lord's lap, someone who's not incomplete, someone with pretty words and a prettier smile."

She pushed down on his erection again. "You are a handsome lord. You have a family name, Sandor Clegane. You are no common man, with a common life. I despise flowery speeches and stretched-out grins. They live their whole lives convinced that they don't look like a fool, but you and I both know that all liars are fools."

"Where did that little bird go?" His voice was full of wonder and arousal. "Tell me."

"I am the same as I have always been." Sansa's back straightened. "I am Sansa Stark."

 _No more words_ , she breathed out in her mind, and the weirwood behind them seemed almost to tremble. Sandor was pulling her wool skirts up around her waist, kissing her like it was making him drunk-she was so dizzy, so breathless, it was all she could do to hold on to his shoulders. _No more doubts_. There was snow falling on her bare skin. Her bodice was loose, her breasts are rubbing up against the hard leather covering his chest, and he was hot and insistent on her cunt. Sansa was mesmerized when he finally pushed up inside of her. She had never felt anything like this before in her entire life, like there had been some vital part of her missing for years. He was fully sheathed in her, and they were both panting, totally unaware of the cold air. _I have never loved anyone but you._  
  
Sansa started to ride him before he even thought about moving. The wonderful, full feeling in her gut and Sandor's curses were more than enough to distract her from the frozen ground under her knees. "Gods," her lover murmured, taking both her breasts in his hands and letting her please herself with him. "Fucking hells. Sansa-"

She came at the sound of her name, and the rest of his words were just noise in her ears. She cried out as her thighs twitched, relinquishing control to him as her body collapsed. Through her blurred vision, she could see Sandor baring his teeth to her like his namesake, almost a snarl; before she could comprehend it, he was up on his knees and she was hoisted up, still wrapped around him. His arms and hands were keeping her body off the ground. "Gods," she whimpered. She weighed like _nothing_ to him, and it excited her so much she almost came again, at the sensation of being lifted. For a split second, she remembered the same feeling when her father would scoop her up as a little girl, and she bit down into the leather on his shoulder to keep those memories at bay. This was not about her family or her past. This was about Sandor, Sandor, Sandor. Sandor, who touched her like he was afraid she would shatter. _I will not break. I am not made of porcelain._

Joffery, Ramsey, Petyr, Dontos, even Tyrion. They had all tried to claim her, tame her, lock her away like a gemstone or a criminal. She was always trailing behind them, flinching in her silks and uttering empty words. Sandor had never treated her as anything less than his equal-he never lied, he never hurt her, and he never viewed her like pretty furniture. When she felt his cock swell and twitch inside her, when she felt her womb being filled with his seed, she felt intensely smug and proud. No man had ever given her pleasure besides her Hound. They had never deserved it.

They stayed, clinging to each other like children, gasping for breath. He lowered her down until they were both sitting in the snow, her on his lap and his forehead resting on her shoulder. She could feel snowflakes melting in her hair, on her nose, and turned her head up to watch the flurries above her. She listened to her lover breathe, and knew, in her heart, that she could never marry again unless it was to Sandor Clegane.

* * *

"Please, tell me this is a joke."

Sansa endured her sister's incredulousness with good will. "You did accuse me of "fancying" him, you know. Is this really such a shock to you?"

Her, Arya, and Bran all sat together in Sansa's solar, drinking spiced wine to chase away the chill settling in. Evette had come and gone, all her duties were taken care of, and there was nothing left but to enjoy the peace that came before war. Her little brother looked like his blankets would swallow his frail body, and she felt a pang in her chest at how skinny he had become while running from home. His face, however, remained unchanged since the day he appeared at the gates-it seemed nothing could surprise Brandon Stark anymore. He was not drinking his wine, either, though she was sure it was the first cup he would have as an adult. "The old gods have already given their approval," he said in a quiet voice. "You don't need to ask Jon."

"He is my king and my lord, as well as my brother. It would not do to elope with his strongest warrior right before the fighting begins." It was still strange to her, to hear Bran speak in such a way. The curious child she had known wanted little to do with any gods, old or new.

Arya let out a disgusted sound, and downed the rest of her drink in a very unladylike manner. Sansa was well-adjusted to Arya's impropriety by now, but still wrinkled her nose up at her sister's display. "I just can't get over you...with him. I always thought you'd end up with some fancy man." A pause, and a sniff. "He's so _ugly_."

"I never thought I would be the one telling you you are being shallow, Arya. I've had my share of 'fancy men', and no one can hold a candle to Sandor. I know, now, what is important to me. I am not a child any longer."

Her sister grumbled, but had no retort. Sansa drank from her goblet, taking secret pleasure from the soreness between her legs. It was an odd sensation, to revel in her pain. Before, it had been a reminder throughout the day what awaited her at night. Ramsey, heavy with wine and anger. He was dead almost a year, now, but Sansa was not naïve enough to think his death would be her cure. Or poor Theon's, for that matter. Nor did she believe that Sandor was a 'cure', either.

It was a start, however. A beginning of a happy life. There would be no better revenge for Sansa (sans Ramsey rising from the dead so she could devour him all over again).

_You thought I was yours, you thought this castle was yours, you thought the North was yours. Now the family you sought to destroy is sitting where you longed to be, and your wife watched your dogs drink your blood. Seven hells is not big enough, cruel enough for you._

* * *

Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, Warden of the West, looked as out of place as he did years ago, when his sister was still alive. He was as homely as he always was, with his impressive scar and mismatched eyes, but Sansa was older and wiser-such things did little to upset her, now that she had seen things far worse than an ugly dwarf. She had come to the godswood to pray for Jon and Sandor, but found the little lord instead, observing the great weirwood like he had never seen one before. Sansa approached after some apprehension. She had yet to be alone with Tyrion ever since he arrived, and she was ashamed to admit that she had been childishly avoiding him.

"Lady Stark," he intoned upon seeing her. "I was right, all those years ago. You have survived-in fact, you've outlived many others who fancied themselves cleverer than you."

"Underestimating me was their mistake." She dipped into a short curtsy. "I apologize for not speaking to you sooner, Lord Tyrion. I find myself very preoccupied as of late, and I've little experience in leading or keeping a hold fed and running."

"We both know you're excellent at it. Perhaps you should stop underestimating yourself, as well."

Sansa knew what she was capable of-it was this world and the people in it, stuffing her into skirts too short and rooms too small. She deigned not to answer him, instead passing him to sit on one of the tree's gnarled roots. _It is...warm_. Was it just her imagination? The wood should be as solid as ice beneath her, and yet... "I figured I would find you here. Even at King's Landing, you preferred the godswood to the castle."

"I was trying to escape a den of lions." Her voice held no bitterness, despite her obvious allusion to his family. Really, it had only been one lioness, and one pinch-faced cub. Just like the devil pretending to be a man, they were dead, too. "Now, I come to give thanks that my family is finally home." Sansa titled her head to notice that Tyrion was standing almost exactly where Sandor (her _betrothed)_ and her had made love not even half a day ago-she successfully held back her smirk, but had to bite the inside of her cheek. "You were looking for me, my lord?"

He walked as gracefully as she'd ever seen him to sit a few feet to her right. His green-black eyes squinted at the frozen pond for a second before speaking. "Indeed, I was. Considering that Jon Snow is your brother, is it safe to assume that you know of his...affections for our queen?"

Sansa remembered the way Jon's hand had rested on Daenerys' waist, like it was muscle memory for it to be there. She flushed to think how long the two had been sleeping together, especially if Tyrion was making it a point of discussion. "I do know. What of it?"

"If things continue to go in the direction they are, we'll have a king _and_ queen for these Seven Kingdoms. Jon Snow rules the North now, but if he marries Daenerys, and if he follows her back to the Red Keep-"

 _Jon will leave Winterfell, for good_.

Sansa stood abruptly, her fists clenched underneath her cloak. Tyrion gave her a look of concern but did not rise, instead crossing his legs at the knee and sighing. "It will not be an easy decision for him. He may have to decide between the North and his own happiness. Your brother is a noble man, like your father. Did he not choose duty over love?"

"You're mistaken, my lord. My father went to the capital for love, love for Robert and for Jon Arryn. Love for his family, who needed his protection. A good man knows he has duty not only to his servants but to the people he cares for." She inhaled slowly, letting the winter air fill her lungs until it hurt. "Why are you the one telling me this, and not Jon himself?"

"Nothing is set in stone, yet." Tyrion scratched the still ragged-looking scar that spanned his face. "Jon Snow still looks at her Grace like he cannot believe she exists, so I have doubts that he'll be the one propose marriage. And there's the battle beyond the Wall. It would do no good to announce a betrothal if there is a chance neither of them will return. Her Grace has not even approached me with her thoughts. This is all speculation on my part, but I am merely trying to think of the future. If they succeed, and if Jon accepts her, I have a feeling that he will leave the North in your hands."

She spun and stared with wide eyes, mouth half-open as she let out a shaky gasp.

"Your siblings are too young. Arya is impulsive, and Bran cannot connect to people. Neither have the qualities needed to rule a country this large and untamed, and you already have the respect of the people. The wildlings practically worship you. Plus-" He slid off the tree root, hitting the ground with a _crunch_ , and took a few paces to stand directly in front of Sansa. He met her gaze steadily. "-you've _been_ running the North. You protected your hold and the people instead it from internal and external threat. Not only that, but it was because of you that Winterfell was even reclaimed at all."

"The people won't want a woman ruling-"

"Their sovereign ruler will be a woman. If they have problems with it, they can take it to her Grace. I'm sure she'd be very understanding of their fears," Tyrion joked, and Sansa couldn't help but smile a little at the thought. "I thought that if Jon were to be the one to talk to you, you may not think of yourself and try to convince him to stay. It _is_ ultimately his decision, but his family would be the one thing that might make him hesitate. I thought, if I were the one to speak to you, you would seriously consider my words."

He was right, and she would be lying to say that having Winterfell did not set her heart aflame. But... "However much the people respect me, they named Jon the King in the North. If he leaves to marry Daenerys, they will look at it like he is abandoning them. They still remember Robb and all his loud promises. They are jaded, and tired, and have gone through much in the past few years. I know they will not want me."

"Jon will be expected to marry, regardless. And have you seen many ladies come calling?"

"Ah...no."

"I do not think he intends to marry, really. Love might change his mind on the subject."

"Jon...is scared of having a family. He said he will never marry or sire children unless he has a true name. It was difficult growing up as a bastard, even if he was treated like a brother and son. My mother was cruel, and I-I dismissed him." She observed the dirt at her feet. "Her Grace has already told me she is infertile, or she believes herself to be so. I sincerely doubt that she relayed that information to Jon, though. She must not know his fears."

"We shall never really know what they discuss amongst themselves. It's our job to support them whatever choice they make. Yes?"

_What you mean is, don't ask Jon to stay._

Still, she answered, "Yes. You're right."

* * *

It was a curiously silent night. Sansa could normally hear the sounds of snow and ice outside, the static and the cracks of icicles, the crunch of footsteps; indeed, the winter held a different set of sounds altogether than that of summer, and could never truly be described as "silent". Yet, it felt like the entire North was holding in a breath in anticipation. The lady of Winterfell felt the fear of the people below like a prickling of her skin. Before the sun would even rise, Jon Snow would be marching beyond the protection of his hold, and he was taking Sandor with him. She knew, of course, that he would always be leaving to fight, but it had seemed abstract during their courtship (could it be called such?). Neither of them discussed it in length. What else could she say to him but _please don't die. If you do, so will I_? He would scoff at her words, dismiss her affection, forgetting for a moment that he had agreed to marry her.

Sandor had refused, as she had a feeling he would, but an hour more of love making had convinced him to accept her. Her thrill over becoming Sandor Clegane's wife was dampened severely by his imminent departure. She had not told anyone besides Arya and Bran, nor did she plan to until her lover returned, dead or alive. It gave her comfort and excitement to hold in deep in her heart. It felt like a victory.

Along with the lack of noise came a bracing cold, which the walls of Winterfell did well to keep out. She thought of the makeshift shelters that the freefolk and her soldiers had put together, and trembled for them under her layers of fur.

A sound broke the silence-a short knock on her door, breaking her of her reverie. There was no one else it could be at this hour, the hour of the wolf. Sansa slithered out from her bed and padded across the stone floor, staying on the balls of her feet like she was balancing. When she opened her door, Sandor brushed past her, no longer hesitant to enter her chambers. Sansa closed the door, locking it for good measure, before following him into her bedroom, where she could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. She said his name, and he moved quickly to grab her, pulling her to him and crushing her to his chest. His hands seemed to cover her entire back, they were so large. It was hard to breathe, but she let him hold her there, knowing he was just as afraid as she was.

"You're not a little bird anymore, or even a little wolf. You're something else entirely now, something beyond fucking comprehension. There's no way in all seven hells I could die before I get to call you my wife."

Sansa wept all through their lovemaking, grateful for the cover of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH my brain is turning to mush someone he lp


End file.
